Reconciliation
by paganpunk2
Summary: It's been three years since their last big fight. Thrown together unexpectedly, can Bruce and Dick move past their old battles? Not slash.
1. Midnight Surprise

Batman leaned down into the car and lifted his recently wayward son out. "Hold still," he ordered as the twenty year old struggled a bit. _Bleeding all over the damn place and he still can't hold still for thirty seconds. Jesus._

"I can _walk_, you know," Nightwing groaned at him. Everything he had ached or, worse yet, pulsed violently with each heartbeat. There was a trace of annoyance in his voice, but if he wanted to be honest with himself he was damn glad that he didn't have to go the length of the cave under his own power. Being a fully credentialed vigilante in his own right didn't mean that he wasn't soothed simply by being cradled in his father's arms.

"You'll make it worse if you move."

"Yeah…" He dropped his head against the dark armor beside him and closed his eyes, trying to will the pain away. He didn't open them as he felt himself being lowered onto the table and covered with a blanket, nor when he heard Alfred enter the cave and inquire as to the nature of the emergency.

"Master Dick?" a gentle voice asked him. "Are you awake?"

"Yeah, I'm right here," he admitted. He had seriously considered not responding so as to save himself from the questions he knew would be coming, but it seemed cruel to deepen their worry by pretending to be unconscious. "I'm okay, it's just a few nicks," he said quickly as hands that were all too familiar with this work began to undo his armor – _fat lot of good that did me_ – and pull back his costume.

"I'm afraid I must disagree with you, sir," Alfred said evenly after a brief examination. "You appear to have…three…bullet wounds, in addition to assorted other injuries not limited to broken bones and lacerations."

"Three?" Bruce had changed with record speed and returned to the table, where he was now doing his own assessment of the younger man's injuries. "You said you were grazed _twice_, Dick," he accused, his voice a mixture of anger and sadness.

"Well, I guess once you've been shot twice in the same fight you just don't see much point in counting any more," the younger man half-joked through the pain.

"This is a fair bit more than a graze," Alfred intoned, putting pressure on the gaping wound in Dick's side that was causing the greatest amount of blood loss. "Had the wound been much deeper, you may not have made it back here. I am curious as to why your armor didn't protect you better; two of these wounds are in areas covered by it."

"Armor piercing bullets," Dick muttered.

"In Gotham?" Bruce said moodily. "Where are they getting them? Bludhaven?"

"Yeah. That's why I was here, in…in your territory. I've had a couple of these types of rounds in me before, and you better believe I got right to work cutting off their supply lines. There are still a few guys running around Bludhaven with armor piercers, but not many. Tonight I got wind that they were selling a load to someone in Gotham. I found out too late to stop them in Bludhaven, so I followed them here. I didn't want you to find out about them the same way I did. Those things hurt." He opened his eyes at the silence that drew out following his statement and found both of the older men staring down at him. "What?"

"You were shot and you didn't call for help?" Bruce growled.

"…We were fighting," Dick admitted, a little sheepishly.

"Master Wayne, if you would be so kind as to put pressure on this, I'll fetch Master Dick a painkiller before I begin sewing," Alfred slipped in, sensing that the other two needed a moment. "The other injuries are relatively minor, considering what you've both come back with in the past," he tried to reassure as Bruce came around the table. "I'll just be a moment, Master Dick," he added, resting his hand on the wounded man's shoulder briefly before leaving the pair alone.

"I thought about calling, I just…"

"Didn't want me to think you couldn't handle it."

"…Yeah."

He searched the bared skin in front of him for clues. "Is this one of them?" he asked, fingering a fairly fresh scar just above his collarbone.

"…Yeah. It was fine, I took care of it. Getting the bullet out was a bitch, but it healed fine."

"You didn't go to a hospital?"

"I like the circus, but the media circus can go to hell."

"You should have called, Dick."

"Like I said, we were fighting."

"That doesn't matter. That _never_ matters. I don't care how angry you are with me, or how angry you think I am with you, don't you _ever_ not call for help again when you need it. Especially when you've been hurt."

"Aaaaand now we're fighting again," Dick sighed, his words ending with a cough.

"We're _not_ fighting."

"I don't get it, Bruce. I've been out on my own for three years, I cleaned up Bludhaven, I lent a hand – successfully, I might add - on a couple of JLA ventures, and you _still_ don't think I can do this. Everybody else gets it, so why don't you?" He tried to push the older man's hand away from the wound in his side, determined to take over for himself, but was met with too much resistance. He gave up after a moment, tired from blood loss and the emotional drain of arguing again. Everything had been so great these past few hours, working together again to take down those gun runners, an even better oiled team than before. Just like old times. Now he could sense it slipping away, and the thought forced a tear to slide down his cheek.

He started a little when Bruce tenderly reached up and removed his mask, the one part of his equipment that Alfred had not bothered with. Heavy fingers swept his sweat-damp hair back from his forehead, resting there for a moment before sliding down to cup his face. Dick remembered this ritual from so many nights growing up as Robin, nights when he had been too tired or injured to deal with undressing himself. On those nights Bruce would take his mask off with the same care, would touch his skin in the same sweet manner. It had been a long time since he'd felt that caress. He had missed it. He opened his eyes and found Gotham's famed billionaire leaning over him.

"I know you can do it, Dick. I've never doubted that." The younger man gasped slightly at the admission, but Bruce continued. "But you could have died from that wound, and probably from some of the others you got while you were working by yourself. Even when I've worked alone, I've always had Alfred. If I was injured, all I had to do was get home. You had no one in Bludhaven to turn to, though; even if you had called us, we were still two hours away here. That scared me. You have no idea how much that scared me. I would read all about your exploits one day, and then there would be nothing for days, weeks sometimes, and I trembled, Dick. I _shook_ thinking that you had been hurt in the previous fight and, having no one to help you and not wanting to call us, had gone home and…and…" He stared down at his son, willing his tears to not overflow and coming closer to failure with every second.

"I'm sorry," Dick whispered, moved by the obvious emotion in the other man's expression. "I…I really wanted to call, so many times. I did. I just…" He shook his head, angry at himself. "I just couldn't get over my own pride enough to pick up the fucking phone and do it. So stupid," he moaned, slamming his fist into the table in frustration and turning his face away in shame.

"Hush," Bruce calmed him, levering his head back up so that he could see the brilliant blue eyes that had completely captured his heart from day one. "It wasn't entirely your fault. I…I said plenty of unfair things. Untruthful things. I've spent the last three years trying to figure out why I said what I did, and I think I finally know. I should have told you how proud I was of you, I should have told you every day, but I was afraid. I thought if I told you, you would get over confident, and you would get yourself killed as a result. I should have known better; you've never been one to get a big head over compliments. I never imagined that my nightmares of losing you could get any worse than they were those last few months, when we were fighting so frequently with one another. I was so wrong, Dick. So very wrong. The things I have watched be done to you in my sleep since you left…" he shuddered, giving in to a small sob.

"Bruce," he breathed sadly, reaching up and placing his hand over those still pressing into his side. When it didn't seem to help, he spoke again. "Dad." That got his attention, all right, and Dick couldn't help but smile at the surprise on his face. He didn't think he'd ever called him that before tonight. "It wasn't your fault. I should have listened to you more. I know I was difficult. Alfred probably would have killed me himself if he'd heard some of the things I called you. The things I said." He blinked hard. "I never hated you. I know I said it, but…please, you have to know that I never really hated you. I was just-"

"A teenager," Bruce finished for him. "You were a teenager, and I should have been an adult. Even when I was out of costume, I went into Batman mode. I stopped listening to you, insisted on my way or the highway, and you chose the highway. Alfred tried to show me what I was doing, how I was smothering you, but I ignored him too. Telling you to leave was the absolute worst decision of my life. Your capabilities were so far beyond what I was letting you do, and I should have treated you as my equal, because you _were,_ but I failed. I failed you." His voice dropped.

"You've never failed me," Dick insisted.

"I did fail you," Bruce repeated. "But I have no intention of letting it happen again. I just need to know what I can ever do to make it up to you?" His last words were a plea, begging his son to let him back into his life. "Even just a…a phone call, even if it's just once a week, just something to let me know that you're safe and happy. Just that, please?"

"I think I can do better than that," the wounded man whispered, his voice fainter than it had been when they started. "Do you think…I mean, we kicked ass tonight."

"We did," the billionaire nodded, stroking his son's cheek and looking at him worriedly. He hadn't missed how tired he sounded, and it was obvious that he'd grown pale during the course of their conversation.

"Maybe…" he paused, not sure how Bruce would take his proposition. "Maybe Batman and Nightwing could join forces more…permanently? I mean, I'm not saying that we'll never disagree again, but at least now we know how much it sucks to be so distant from each other, so it might temper our…tempers." He screwed up his nose at the clunky sentence. "You know what I mean."

"You want to come home?" Bruce asked, dumbfounded. "You would really want that?"

"…It's all I've really wanted since I left. Even when I was mad, part of me ached at not being here. Bludhaven will probably need Nightwing again sometimes, but it can deal with the day to day stuff on its own. Gotham's always been more screwed up, anyway," he laughed. "No offense."

"Bludhaven is no paradise, but it was much worse before Nightwing showed up. Don't sell yourself short. You've helped a lot of people there." He straightened, wiping his eyes clear with one hand. "I would love it, Dick. I really would. But there's something you need to know."

"What's that?"

"There's a new Robin." He saw his son's eyebrow arch, and a bolt of fear passed through him. He wouldn't be able to blame him for being upset about some unknown taking his old alter ego over, but he desperately hoped that he could get over it. The idea of Batman and Nightwing patrolling the rooftops of Gotham – and, occasionally, of Bludhaven – side by side was more than he had dared to hope for over the past thousand days, but now that the suggestion was there he knew he wouldn't be able to get over it until it happened.

"Is he good?"

"I'm still training him. He's only ten." Glancing around to make sure that Alfred was still out of earshot, he leaned close. "He's good, and he'll be even better, but – and I never told you this, remember that – he's got nothing on you."

"So I have a little brother in need of training." Dick rolled that around in his mind for a minute. Looking up to see Bruce watching him with hopefulness carefully hooded in his eyes, he grinned. "Sounds like fun. Do you think he'll like me?"

"How could he not?" Bruce murmured, something akin to joy rising in his chest.

"Here we are," Alfred broke in, injecting a painkiller smoothly. From the barely disguised grin wreathing his face, both Bruce and Dick could tell that he had heard enough to know that the duo of Batman and Nightwing would be hitting the streets of Gotham together from here on out. "I'll take that back over, Master Wayne. Why don't you take a shower in while I take care of business here?" Bending down ostensibly to adjust his patient to a more suitable position for suturing, he whispered in his ear. "Welcome home, Master Dick. You have been very sorely missed."

"Sweet dreams, son," Bruce wished, gripping his hand tightly.

"They will be, now," Dick murmured, slipping into sleep as the morphine kicked in.

Alfred was preparing to place his first stitch when he looked up to find Bruce Wayne still watching his sleeping child. "Sir?" he inquired gently.

"We got our boy back, Alfred," the billionaire said fiercely.

"Yes, Master Wayne," the butler agreed, happiness evident in his voice. "You did."


	2. Reveille

**Author's Note: This started out as a one shot, but a lovely review from The Book FANGIRL convinced me to take it a bit further. More chapters to come. Happy reading!**

Dick opened his eyes blearily, trying to remember why he hurt everywhere. An instant later he realized that the ceiling was the wrong color and shot to his feet, fully prepared for an attack. The stitches in his side pulled violently at the sudden movement, forcing a pained exclamation from his lips as they tore through his skin.

"Whoa, whoa, hey, Dick, calm down!" Bruce swung himself across the bed and stood just in time to catch his staggering son. "It's all right," he whispered, pulling the trembling body close as he lowered him back down to the mattress. "You're safe. You're home."

"Sorry," Dick gasped after a moment. "I…the ceiling wasn't what I was expecting. Mine's green."

"I know. We brought you to my room last night. I didn't want to leave you alone and, quite frankly, you're harder to carry than you used to be. Your room was too far away."

"Calling me fat?" the younger man joked.

"Of course not. You're just not a little boy anymore." He paused, fully aware of the irony of what he'd just said. Glancing down, he found Dick looking up at him.

"Took you long enough to figure that out," he ribbed gently. Seeing that Bruce didn't take offense at his words, he reached over and gently probed the bandages covering his side. "Ah, crap," he voiced plaintively when his fingers came back bloody.

"You pulled the stitches out," the man beside him sighed. "Here. Lie down and let me look." Pulling the dressing off, he shook his head, then pushed the already soiled gauze back against the wound and instructed Dick to hold it in place while he buzzed for Alfred.

"That's going to scar pretty bad," he said as he reclaimed his seat on the edge of the bed. "Especially now that it has to be re-sewn."

"Well, it can join the others. Better than spending money on tattoos, I guess."

"Although I noticed you've gone and gotten yourself one of those, too," Bruce said wryly.

"What, you don't like it? I think it looks good."

"Running a big risk, covering yourself in a cape of feathers in those colors."

"Most of the people who've seen it already knew."

"And the ones who didn't know?"

"I told them I was a Nightwing fanboy. I'm kind of the station nerd, so they all bought it. Would you believe that _Wally_ did all that needlework? It's this weird hobby of his." Dick was proud of the elaborate ink that covered his shoulders, upper back, and triceps. He had drawn the design himself, lining each individual feather out on paper with his tongue firmly between his teeth. It had taken six months to complete, but now the colors of Nightwing were permanently etched under his skin.

"No. But I'm glad you at least had someone you could trust do the work." Bruce looked up as the door opened and Alfred stepped in, his arms laden with medical supplies.

"Speaking of needles…" Dick sighed. "I _hate_ stitches."

"And yet you let Wally stab you millions of times in quick succession."

"Hey, tattoos are different!"

"Uh-huh. Alfred, did you happen to bring any saline? This is starting to look a little red around the edges."

"Here you are, sir," the butler intoned, handing over a bottle of wound irrigation fluid and a small bowl to catch the runoff. "Master Dick, I assume that you will be making attempts to get out of bed shortly, seeing as how that's exactly what you shouldn't be doing today?"

"Aw, you remembered my habits. Ow, shit!" he exclaimed when Bruce began to flood his damaged side with liquid.

"I see your language has deteriorated in the absence of proper monitoring," the butler droned as he pulled on a pair of latex gloves and opened the plastic on a new suture kit.

"Proper monitoring? Jeez, I don't have to go through the whole 'I'm an adult now' thing with you, too, do I?"

"No, young sir, I am well aware of your current age. Would you like a pain pill?" he added pointedly when another course expletive exploded into the room.

"…It's not going to knock me out, is it?" he asked suspiciously, remembering plenty of past instances when Alfred had purposefully given him a painkiller designed to push him into sleep. It was one of his tricks for keeping his charges where they should be when injured.

"It's just a Percocet. You have never experienced undue drowsiness from them before, if I recall correctly."

"Yeah, okay then." Confident that Alfred wouldn't lie to him when asked a direct question, he took the capsule and swallowed it dry.

"Tea to help it down?" Alfred offered immediately after, turning back from the tray with a steaming cup in his hands. "I suppose not," he tacked on, seeing Dick's abashed look.

Bruce, finished cleaning the injury out, gave his son a troubled look. "I would have waited if you'd said you were in pain."

"You didn't hear all the cursing going on?" Dick asked.

"I had already started by that point. Say something sooner next time."

"I'll try to keep that in mind the next time I get shot. Sorry," he added immediately, catching the look on Bruce's face at the implication.

"Let's just avoid that from here on out," was all that was said, quietly, in response. "I'm going to go call the office and let them know I won't be in today, Alfred. Dick, be good."

"Aren't I always?"

"No," both the billionaire and the butler replied at the same time. All three of them exchanged looks, and the two crime fighters laughed. Internally delighted to hear them trading friendly shots again, Alfred allowed a short chuckle to escape his lips before he directed his attention to the task of repairing the same ruined skin he'd patched less than twelve hours before. Dick flinched under the first few tugs on his overworked nerves, then closed his eyes and dozed lightly as the Percoset took effect. The aged Englishman studied his face surreptitiously as he worked, noting the more clearly defined bone structure and other minute changes that had set in during his patient's absence. _For all that you carry none of his genes, Richard Grayson, you look so much like your father_, he couldn't help but think. _It is such a shame that you both hide your features behind masks._

"Is he asleep again?" Bruce asked as he re-entered the room.

"I believe he's right on the edge of it. You look as if you could do with a little more rest yourself, sir."

"Mm. Maybe." Bending down, he watched another stitch be snugged into place. "How does it look?"

"He'll recover, Master Wayne. He's young and strong, and the wound isn't as bad as it could easily have been."

"You said something last night about a fracture?"

"I was mistaken. There is some substantial bruising along his right shin that I read as a possible break to the tibia. Further investigation proved me incorrect, although I expect he'll experience a fair amount of discomfort for a little while, especially if he bears much weight on it."

"So this is the worst of it?"

"Yes, it appears that that is the case."

"Good." He took a deep breath. "I think I will rest for a few minutes, Alfred. Let me know when you've finished?"

"Of course, sir."

Circling around to the other side of the bed, Bruce crawled in cautiously in an attempt to not disturb the injured man's slumber. Stretching out beside him, he rested a hand on his neck and let his knuckles brush against a pulse point. Relieved by the steady rhythm beneath his fingers, he fell into a dreamless abyss.


	3. Breakfast Banter

"Why is it so bright in here?" were the griping words that dragged Bruce Wayne back out of what had been a mercifully nightmare-free sleep.

"Dick?" he asked, sitting up quickly in fear that his son might react to waking up the same way he had earlier.

"Hey," came a yawned reply. "Did Alfred leave any more Percoset?"

Alfred chose that exact moment to knock at the door before sweeping into the room bearing a tray. "Are we ready to try again, sirs?" he asked.

"What time is it?" Bruce inquired.

"Ten-thirty, Master Wayne."

"Oh, Christ," Dick moaned. "My sergeant's going to _kill_ me. I was supposed to be in two hours ago."

"You can't work, you're hurt," Bruce immediately pointed out.

"I know. But I could have at least called and let her know I wasn't coming in today."

"Or ever again."

"Huh?" Dick froze midway through a painful stretch and gave him a quizzical look.

"How can you be a police officer in Bludhaven if you're going to be Nightwing in Gotham?" Bruce asked. His voice was level, but his guts were churning; had Dick changed his mind during the night? Had he decided that coming home wasn't what he really wanted, after all? If he had decided as much, what did it say about the state of disrepair their relationship had fallen into that a mere twelve hours in the manor, most of which had been spent sleeping, had been enough to convince him that their renewed partnership was already doomed?

"Oh, yeah!" White teeth flashed as his face split into a deliriously happy smile. "I, uh, totally spaced about that. Stupid, right?"

"You had a long night. I won't hold it against you," Bruce winked, his stomach settling again. "Can we wheedle breakfast out of you, Alfred?"

"I've anticipated you, Master Wayne," the butler revealed, removing an ornate silver lid to reveal two well-loaded plates. "Shall I fetch a second bed tray?"

"No, I'll move into a chair," Bruce said. "Here, Dick, let me help you sit up."

"I can do it," the younger man asserted. He was secretly pleased when Bruce didn't insist on assisting him, but quickly found that he was pushing his luck trying to reposition himself without aid. "Okay, I lied," he admitted when he felt his stitches start to tighten. "Help me, please."

"Hold still."

"Always with the holding still," he rolled his eyes.

"Been trying to get you to do it since you were eight," Bruce rejoined as he carefully levered him upwards and held him in place so Alfred could reposition the bed linens. "You never could manage it, but I don't see any reason to stop trying to get you to cooperate in that department."

Dick leaned back against a veritable wall of pillows and grinned as a heaping plate was settled on a tray across his legs. "Strawberry waffles. Excellent."

"I seemed to recall them being a particular favorite of yours," Alfred said lightly, the corner of his mouth twitching almost invisibly. "You'll find another Percocet beside your napkin. I suggest you take it after you've eaten."

"Ith thif one gonna put me thleep again?" came a food-laden question. He swallowed, blushing. "Oops. I know, I know, bad manners. You fall out of habit living alone, I guess. Will telling you that these are the best waffles I've had in three years get me out of trouble?"

Alfred blinked twice before he answered. "You have always had an unusual talent for turning on the charm when you most deserve punishment, Master Richard," he said dryly. "To answer your question, I imagine you'll only sleep if your body truly needs to. I'll leave the tray for you," he addressed to Bruce. "Ring if you need anything."

When the door had shut, Bruce chuckled and shot a look at the young man who had already dispensed with his waffles and moved on to decimate a pile of bacon. "I thought he was going to have a coronary. You know how much he hates it when people talk with their mouths full."

"Yeah. I almost choked when he used my full name. I wasn't trying to tick him off, I'm just so freaking hungry."

"When did you eat last?" he queried, picking up his own plate and sitting in the armchair nearest to the bed. After a second he frowned, scooted the chair closer, and propped his feet up beside the lump that indicated Dick's.

"Yesterday morning."

"You didn't have anything before you went out on patrol?"

"There wasn't time. I got the tip about the gunrunners right as I was about to make dinner."

"You look thin, Dick. You've lost weight."

"No I haven't, I weigh fifteen pounds more than I did the last time I was here. I've just gained three inches of height, that's all."

"…You still look thin. Just an observation," he tacked on, raising his hands as he saw the other man's face darken. "Not a judgment. Relax. God, I forgot how quick your temper can be."

"It's no quicker than Batman's." Bruce opened his mouth to reply, but he really couldn't argue with that. They chewed silently for a while before Dick pushed his empty plate away and turned the conversation onto a new topic.

"So, when do I get to meet my replacement?"

"He's _not_ your replacement," the older man said sternly. "Don't…don't think of it like that," he softened. _I could never replace you, _he thought. _There could never be another Dick Grayson. Not to me._

"I didn't mean it that way. Let's try that again. When do I get to meet my new brother? Better?"

"Much. He's at school right now, so probably this evening. If," he jested as Dick yawned again, "you're awake, that is."

"I think Alfred's drugging me to keep me in bed."

"Would you really be surprised?"

"Nope. Not in the least. But, no can do," he said as he moved his tray and prepared to swing his legs out of bed. "I need to go to my apartment to get some things. Clothes, stuff like that."

"You shouldn't even be out of bed, let alone driving."

"So you drive me, then. You already took the day off of work."

"All right. But," he stopped him as he went to throw the covers back, "let me get you some clothes. You can use my bathroom. There's no point in you walking all the way to yours and back."

"I don't even know if anything I have here will still fit," Dick realized. "I don't really want to quit the force while wearing highwaters and a shirt with sleeves that end halfway past my elbows. Most of the guys are my friends, but I'd never live that down."

A brief knock on the door was followed by another entrance by Alfred. "I believe you'll find these to be closer to your current size, Master Dick."

Dick just stared at him. "I forgot how ridiculously uncanny your timing can be, Alfred. It's kind of creepy."

"Ah, yes. I believe you said the same thing shortly after you first came to reside here."

"Did I?"

"You did," Bruce affirmed, smiling as he remembered a much younger version of his son solemnly telling him that Alfred had to have every room – including the cave - tapped in order to know exactly when he was needed. They'd never found any evidence of covert monitoring, but he had to admit that sometimes it seemed like the Englishman was a bit too good at his job.

"Huh. Thanks, Alfred," he said as he accepted the clothes. Standing, he wavered a bit, causing Bruce to leap upright and reach out for him. "I'm okay," he assured him, and felt the hand that had closed around his wrist pull back hesitantly. "I'll be fine as soon as the pill kicks in."

"…All right," the billionaire said reluctantly. "We'll be right here if you need help."

"I know," he nodded before he made his way into Bruce's bathroom and shut the door. Once there, he sighed in jealousy at the expanse of marble and chrome. He'd always loved Bruce's private bathroom, with its massive Carrera tub and counters, hardwood floors and soft hidden lighting. The room practically manhandled a person into relaxing. Dick's own bathroom in the manor was perfectly spacious and well-appointed, but there was just something special about the layout of this space that spoke to him.

He considered locking the door, then felt his knees go weak and decided against it. _I probably shouldn't be out of bed,_ he chastised himself, gripping the edge of the vanity until the spell passed. He didn't want to wait another day to get his things from Bludhaven, though, partially because he was worried that he might need some of his Nightwing gear in an emergency and partially because he was ecstatic about coming back to Gotham. Gritting his teeth, he straightened and gave himself a quick look in the mirror. Noting the bandages on his left thigh and just above his right elbow, he recalled feeling both bullets scrape his flesh the night before. There were no other dressings, but he was streaked with orange where Alfred had wiped his less serious scratches with Betadine.

"I look like an Oompa Loompa," he muttered, glancing towards the inviting tub. After a second's thought he threw that idea out; as much as he wanted a good soak, even a fast shower would require a change of bandages before they could go out. Alfred and Bruce would both insist that he rest during the procedure, and he knew if he had to lie down again he would fall back asleep, completely wasting the day. Resolved, he wet a washcloth and began to wipe down, wincing as he bumped bruises.

Fifteen minutes later he felt almost presentable. The clothes Alfred had provided him with fit beautifully, just loose enough to not aggravate his injuries but trimmed enough to show off his physique. White wasn't usually his color, but it looked good with the dark jeans. He had to admire the old man's sense of style.

"Okay, I think I'm ready," he announced as he re-entered the bedroom, trying his best not to limp on his decidedly sore right leg. "Alfred, these clothes fit perfectly. Please tell me you didn't measure me while I was passed out downstairs last night."

The butler didn't miss a beat. "Only to verify your inseam and sleeve length, Master Dick," he replied evenly, his eyes sparkling. "Your shoes are to your left."

"Oh, wow," he moaned as he placed his feet into the waiting loafers. "Are these Birks? They feel like Birks."

"I don't know how you can wear those," Bruce contributed. "I always feel like my feet are choking in shoes like that."

"These are, like, the most comfortable shoes known to man," Dick retorted. "You're just a misery junkie."

"I am not."

"So you've been wearing the orthotic insoles for your perpetual flat-footedness?"

"…No."

"So instead your feet hurt constantly."

"Not when I'm in costume, they don't."

"Yeah, but that's only because when we redesigned your boots Alfred and I contoured the insoles without telling you."

"You _what_?!"

"We were sick of watching you mince around on sore feet every night. And it _worked, _didn't it?" He crossed his arms and tried to look huffy as he spoke, but the curve of his lips gave the act away.

"You are impossible," Bruce stated, shaking his head. "You're just as bad for encouraging him!" he threw at Alfred when he saw a triumphant look pass between them.

"Come now, Master Wayne," the Englishman calmed him, picking up the empty breakfast tray and preparing to take it downstairs. "Boys will be boys. If you still insist on going out in spite of your condition, Master Dick, I will see to it that a car is brought up."

Something clicked in Dick's head. "Oooh…I left my bike down by the docks last night," he lamented. "It's probably in a thousand pieces in somebody's chop shop by now."

"It's been retrieved, intact," the butler revealed.

"Where is it?"

"He'll tell you when you're fit to ride it again," Bruce cut in. Crossing the room, he offered his arm. "Ready?"

"I can make it myself," Dick said, not unkindly.

"We're taking the elevator. Don't argue," he stopped him as he saw protest rising. "You can walk by yourself if you want, but you're not doing stairs today. Deal?"

It wasn't an unreasonable request, and the younger man knew it. "Okay, deal," he agreed. "Let's get this done."


	4. Driving Me Crazy

**Author's Note: Before we get too much further in, I just want to clarify that in the interest of keeping with the basic canon timeline I'm using Jason as the second Robin (as much as I really wanted to use Tim, because I adore his relationship with Dick; oh well, fodder for a later story). Also, thank you so much to everybody who has read this far and especially to those of you who have been so encouraging and interested in your reviews and PMs. This is my first story in this fandom, and I cannot express how welcome all of you other Batman fans have made me feel. Happy reading!**

"Dick," Bruce said, low, trying to begin the process of rousing his son without making him jump and potentially choke himself with the seatbelt. The younger man turned his head away and shifted slightly. "Dick. Wake up."

"Don't want to. Comfy."

"I need you to tell me where to go. We're almost to the city limits." It was a lie, technically; Bruce knew all of Dick's favorite haunts in Bludhaven, and was familiar with a half dozen different ways to get to them, but he didn't see any need to reveal that fact. It seemed like the kind of thing that might sunder their still-fragile reconciliation, and he wouldn't risk it for anything.

"Mmkay." Then nothing.

Bruce glanced over and smiled, deciding to let him be for a little while longer. The past ninety minutes had been the most peaceful block of time he could remember having since the former Robin had chucked a few items into a bag and stormed from the manor one thousand, one hundred and sixty one days earlier. Bruce knew it had been that long because he had been counting. Every day had been another twist on the knife that had lodged itself in his heart when he realized that his child had taken his angry outburst seriously and departed the manor. His smile tightened as he recalled their last argument, and he had to reach out and touch his passenger to remind himself that it was all in the past.

They had conversed for a little while at the beginning of the drive, trying to catch up on the events of the last three years. Dick was full of questions about Jason, and had been intrigued by the similarities between the new Robin's background and his own. His inquiries as to how far into the acrobatics side of things the trainee had gotten had made it clear to Bruce that he had intentions of contributing to the boy's martial education. Finally Bruce had asked him to wait and see his skill level for himself, wanting to hear more about the years he had missed instead of talking about things he already knew.

Roughly forty minutes after they'd left the manor he'd noticed the flow of conversation slowing down and had looked over to find Dick's eyelids drooping conspicuously. It hadn't taken much prodding to convince him to tilt the seat back and nap. Since then, Bruce had been perfectly content to drive surrounded by only the low hum of the import's engine and the occasional dreaming murmur from beside him.

White, he reflected as he spared another look to his right, had been an excellent choice on Alfred's part for two reasons. Primarily, it contrasted with its wearer's slightly dusky skin and covered up the fact that he was a fair bit paler than normal, something that might draw unwanted questions about how he'd gotten that way. Secondarily – and, to Bruce, of almost more importance given his passenger's recent history with stitches – it would immediately report any renewed bleeding. The fact that the shirt looked good was consequential only because the wider world expected that the rich would dress well.

"Hey, chum," he started up again gently. "You're going to have to wake up." They were almost far enough into Bludhaven that it would be suspicious to continue without directions, so he reached over and squeezed his fingers. Finding them cold, he frowned and turned up the heat. "Dick…"

"Okay, okay. I'm awake." He didn't move.

"You're either going to have to tell me where to go or I'm going to have to turn around," Bruce informed him.

That, at least, got a response. Dick raised his head and looked out of the windshield, letting the seat push him upright. When he realized exactly where they were, he laughed shortly.

"…What?"

"You're a terrible liar, do you know that?"

"Excuse me?"

"You know exactly where you're going." The car hitched slightly as Bruce reacted to the accusation. Nobody except Dick, whom he had trained to pick up on tiny tells like the one he'd just expressed, would have noticed. "I knew it. How often did you follow me?"

"I didn't follow you."

"Yeah, right."

"Dick…"

"How often?"

"Only a couple of times," Bruce admitted, knowing that he was caught. "I just wanted to know where you were and that you were okay. Once you started up as Nightwing, I mostly just followed the papers."

"Mostly?"

"…I got a little info from the Titans. Don't blame them, they were just trying to help," he tacked on as Dick swore under his breath. "They were the only people I could find that you were still in contact with somewhat regularly." A moment of quiet passed.

"Who told you about Nightwing? Wally?"

"No. Shortly after you left Alfred brought me a stack of Bludhaven's papers in with my regular Gotham newsfare. He said there was an article or two that I might find interesting. He didn't warn me that you'd hit this place like a tornado and swept everyone off their feet."

"Ah."

"Just out of curiosity…" Bruce trailed off, remembering something he'd been meaning to ask since last night but not sure if this was the right time.

"What?"

"Where did you get your costume? None of the Titans except Wally seemed to have any clue, and he wouldn't say."

"Good man."

"…So you're not going to tell me, then."

He sighed. "It'll only piss you off, Bruce."

"I'd still like to know."

Another series of silent seconds. "In the interest of keeping the lines of communication open," Dick said slowly, "I'll tell you. I, uh…I designed it myself, more or less, but…I got the armor from Alfred."

This time Bruce nearly drove into oncoming traffic.

"Whoa, chill out! Look, you can't hold it against him any more than I can hold the information passing the Titans did against them. Everyone was just acting in what they thought were our best interests."

"I don't see how blatantly encouraging you to go out and fight crime on your own in an unknown city was in your best interest," Bruce scowled, his hands holding the wheel in a death grip.

"I would have gone out with or without Alfred's help, and you know it. I wouldn't have let a lack of armor stop me at the time, as stupid as it sounds now. I never had it as Robin, and if it had come down to I would have convinced myself that I didn't need it as Nightwing. I would have been wrong, Bruce," he said forcefully in response to the dark look that was thrown his direction. "I would have been wrong, and I would have been dead, many times over. His 'blatant encouragement' had a hand in keeping some of those bad dreams you mentioned last night from coming true. If it helps you be less upset with Alfred, remember that."

The older man shuddered visibly. "Okay," he managed finally. "Okay. You have a point. Everyone just did what they thought they had to do. You 'had' to run to Bludhaven, Alfred 'had' to get you armor for your new costume, the Titans 'had' to tell me certain things about what you were up to."

"Yes."

"And I 'had' to follow you and keep tabs on you to some extent."

"…Yes. I can see that." They both drew shaky breaths, their postures relaxing. "Whew."

"'Whew' doesn't even begin to describe it."

"Heh. Yeah. Okay. So…are we still cool?"

"Of course."

"You're not mad about Alfred?"

"I am, but I can get over it. You're not mad about the Titans?"

"Nah. They're fine. Besides, you probably gave them the Batman glare, which would break pretty much anyone. I can't be mad at them for talking under a tactic that's worked on me dozens of times."

Bruce laughed, and the last tension in the car's atmosphere dissipated. "And…you're not mad at me, are you? I understand if you are, I just-"

"I'm not mad," he cut him off. "I'm…I'm really not. I feel like I kind of _should _be, but I can't manage it. I've been mad at you for way too long for being over protective. I need to just realize that it's part of who you are. I love you too much to let it get in the way of our relationship again. I'm not mad."

Gulping, the billionaire tightened his hold on the wheel again. He knew he would never have been able to be so forgiving, nor to speak so frankly about it, had their positions been reversed. As it was all he could do was reach out for his son's hand and grip it tightly, thankfully, when it was given to him. "I-" he choked.

"You don't have to say it, Bruce. It's okay. I know you're not mad at me, either."

_Thank you_, he thought. _Thank you for being a bigger man than I have ever been._ _I guess I have Alfred to thank for that, too._

"So…here we are," Dick said shortly afterwards as they approached a block of two story apartments. "But you already knew that," he added, squeezing the other man's hand briefly before releasing it in order to let him know it was a joke. "C'mon up, you can help me pack."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Bruce smiled.


	5. Nightwing's Nest

The neighborhood looked passably middle class, but Bruce knew that it was sandwiched between two of Bludhaven's worst crime corridors. That, of course, would have been the reason Dick chose to live here instead of closer to his precinct or in one of the few good areas Gotham's sister city boasted. He felt a surge of pride, but it was swiftly overwhelmed by dismay as they entered the building and drew to a stop. "Those are stairs," he announced flatly.

"Boy, your powers of observation never cease to amaze, do they?" Dick retorted. From the tone of his voice Bruce surmised that he hadn't thought this part completely through. "It's not a problem," he said after a moment of reflection. "We'll just go through here." With that, he headed off down the hall, stopping at the last door and pulling out his keys. "Are you coming?" he called back when Bruce didn't follow him.

"I thought you lived on the second story," he whispered when he had caught up.

"I do," Dick whispered back conspiratorially. "I usually go in this way in any case, I'm just excited to show you upstairs. C'mon, you'll love this." Ushering him inside, he shut and locked the door, then turned around with a grin. "Welcome," he said in his best Bela Lugosi voice, raising his arms dramatically. Instantly regretting the action, he pulled them back down, one hand going to his side. "Ow. Owowow. Bad decision."

"Sit," Bruce ordered, helping him to the couch. Crouching, he stared expectantly at the injured area Dick was still clutching and waited for the first telltale spot of blood to appear.

"I don't think it's bleeding. At least, not much," the younger man said as his pain faded a little. "Not enough to soak through the bandage. It just hurt like a bitch."

After another minute, he had to agree that nothing was showing. "Okay, what needs packed? Don't forget anything, I don't want to have to come back tomorrow for your toothbrush."

"Because, you know, we're so destitute that it would really cut into the food budget if we had to buy me a new one."

The reply was too much, and Bruce just couldn't help himself. Pinning Dick against the couch strategically so he couldn't flail, he tickled his undamaged side mercilessly, letting all of his worry, frustration, and relief pour out in the form of childish romping.

"Stop, stop, stop, I swear to God I will poke your eyes out," came shrieks cushioned by giggles. One hand wriggled free and attempted to return the torture, but Bruce misread the movement as a potentially suture-tearing lurch and launched himself at the offending limb, determined to pin it before it did any harm. Overburdened, the couch flipped onto its back and spilled them both onto the rug.

"Dick! Oh, Jesus, I'm sorry, that was stupid. Are you okay?" He pulled him close, wrapping him in his arms apologetically. "You okay, buddy?" he asked again when his only reply was a soft sob.

"I-I don't know if I'm crying or laughing."

He held him tighter, closing his eyes and rocking. "I'm really hoping for the second one."

"Yeah, me too. Oh, man. That was…that was…" Bruce loosened his hug and let him fall back a little, glad to see that he was smiling even as tears made their way down his cheeks. "That was awesome."

"Only so long as you aren't bleeding. I'm going to feel like shit if I just ripped you open again."

"I think we got lucky. It doesn't hurt like it did this morning, when I pulled them out the first time."

"Let me look." Switching back into business mode, Bruce pushed the stark white cotton – his supposed ally, although it wasn't telling him anything at the moment – away and pulled the bandages up, careful to preserve the medical strips holding them in place. It took him longer than it normally would have to determine whether or not they had a problem because Dick was still chuckling, but he was finally satisfied. "There's a little bit of seeping, but it looks okay." Resecuring the tape, he sat heavily back on the floor and matched the silly grin on his son's face. The expression felt strange on his lips, but a secret part of him that only Dick had ever managed to access loved it. "You'll live."

"Good, I owe you payback for that."

"Don't you _dare_ tell Alfred."

"Oh, no, that would be too easy. This is a personal war, Bruce Wayne. No allies, no cheats. Just you and me. Mano a mano."

"You and I," Bruce corrected automatically.

"Oh, please." They laughed at each other. "Help me up so we can put the couch back."

"No, you stay there. I'll get the couch, then we'll move into the bedroom. I don't see much that looks like it needs packing out here." Indeed, the living room was sparse, containing only the couch, a beat-up coffee table, and a few tottering piles of DVDs. The walls, covered in bright posters, ticket stubs, and other paper goods, were all that kept it from looking like the entrance to a drug den.

"What, you want to try and knock the bed over too? It won't go as easily, I've tried."

"Ha, ha," he faked, rolling his eyes. "You can tell me what to pack. And keep the references to whatever sexual exploits you may have had in this place to a minimum."

"Agreed." Dick watched the other man easily flip the sofa upright before bending down to offer his hand. "Oooh, fun times," he grimaced as he gained his feet and his head began to swim. "Thanks."

"You all right?"

"Altitude sickness," he joked.

"…You never stop, do you?" Bruce wondered, watching him closely, one arm locked beneath his shoulders in case his slight swaying turned into a swoon.

"Someone has to counter your dark moods. Might as well be me, right?" Seeing a flash of guilt at that, he patted his shoulder. "Here, help me through that door."

"Take a break," the billionaire instructed firmly as he lowered Dick onto the bed in the next room. He was happy to see that this area of the apartment appeared more lived in than the semi-abandoned looking living room. "Suitcases?"

"Closet, top shelf."

"Clothes?"

"…Also in the closet? Obviously?"

"Which ones, Dick?" Bruce sighed, eyes flying over the crammed-together hangers and overstuffed dresser drawers.

"All of them! I love my clothes, I'm not leaving them behind."

"What's next?" came when the last article was tucked away.

"Did you get the shoes, too?"

"_Really_? Do you _need_ fifteen pairs? Because all of these bags are full."

"Yes. Yes I do. There are garbage bags in the kitchen. Make sure you grab that box on the bookcase, too."

"…Jewelry?" He shot him a look.

"What? I like to look good. It's not like it's girly stuff. It's all…you know…man jewelry."

"Fine, fine." As he snatched the box up, something caught his eye. Most of the room was coated in a fine layer of dust, but one shelf was starkly clean, as if it was frequently used. Examining the books it held, Bruce realized why and felt his breath catch. "I wondered if you had taken these with you," he said softly, stroking one of the spines. "Alice in Wonderland. Three Musketeers. Don Quixote. Arabian Nights…" Each title was a portal to a particular set of memories, each chapter a different night spent sitting beside his sleepy but eager son, reading aloud until the boy's eyes slipped shut and his breathing slowed into slumber. Every sentence contained in those battered classics was a precious recollection. "Dick…"

"Those have to come too. We can't leave them behind. They belong at the manor."

"They belong wherever you are."

"Well, that's the manor. That's where I belong now."

"…I'm so glad, Dick."

"I know, Bruce. So am I." Nothing more was said as the books were loaded into a sturdy cardboard box. "We still have to do the upstairs," Dick reminded, staring up at the ceiling fan. He had been excited earlier about showing off his secret lair, but the anticipation was being dampened by the ever-increasing pin pricks in his side. "Want to play a game?"

"Nothing like that until you're healed. Not after what just happened with the couch."

"I _meant_ do you want to try and figure out where the secret staircase is?"

"You've been gaping up at the fan for about twenty minutes, so I'm guessing that's got something to do with it."

Dick pouted. "You're no fun when you're too clever, you know that?"

"Well excuse me for living. What's the secret?"

"You mean you didn't guess that too?"

"I'm not a mind reader."

"Turn the switch off and pull the fan cord three times." Bruce did so, and was moderately impressed when the ceiling slid apart without a sound and let a narrow staircase wind down beside the bed. "That's pretty good."

"Thanks. The landlady will kill me if she ever finds out about it. The lease is really strict about not doing your own maintenance work. I'm pretty sure hidden staircases count."

"Doesn't she have a key to both apartments?"

"She thinks she does. She also thinks that a kindly old recluse lives upstairs and has seizures when people knock on his door or call him on the telephone."

"Whatever works, I suppose."

"And work it does." He started to push himself up and moaned, causing Bruce to rush to his side.

"Hold on, hold on. What's wrong?"

"I think the Percocet's wearing off, it's really starting to ache again."

"Okay, we'll see if we can find you something." With that, he gently helped him sit. "Good?" he queried when Dick leaned against him.

"Yeah. Just hurts."

"Hold still."

"_Again_?"

"Yes, again." Pulling him into a cradle hold, Bruce stood and made his way up the stairs. He was surprised when the man in his arms didn't protest, and took it as a sign that he was in a fair bit of pain. Zeroing in on a desk chair at the top, he let Dick regain his feet. "Here, sit."

"Thanks," he breathed, practically collapsing into his seat before yawning hugely. "Soooo tired. I hate being so damn tired."

"You need to rest." Glancing around, he was immediately taken with the excellent layout of the small space. The converted apartment was less than a sixth of the size of the main part of the batcave, but it appeared to be more than sufficient for a similar operation. The wall that delineated living area and bedroom in the apartment below was missing save for a few essential support columns, creating one large space that allowed easy access to the various stations that had been set up. The kitchen had obviously been transformed into a compact laboratory. File cabinets flanked a long counter containing several custom built computers. There was no carpeting visible due to the gymnasium mats that covered the floor, and the area near the door had been turned into a makeshift workout station with battered, obviously secondhand equipment. The door itself was ringed with enough locks that only an explosion would force it open for anyone lacking the proper keys. A large section of the former bedroom was dedicated to storing costume pieces and weaponry, each item with its own dedicated nook. The windows were bricked and barred shut; the only outside access was through the roof, and if Bruce hadn't been looking for the access panel he wouldn't have known it was there at all. He was still drinking it in when Dick started listing off the things he wanted to take back to Gotham.

"All my gear. I wish I had the energy to pull the hard drives from the computers…I think all the most important stuff is on the laptops, though. Make sure we get both of them, plus the files next to them. Been working on a couple of things, and some of the info on the gunrunners from last night will be useful."

Bruce packed as quickly as he could. "Don't you have a second set of armor?" he asked as he brought everything over to the stairs. It was the one thing he hadn't found, and its absence bothered him greatly.

"No. I felt bad enough taking the set Alfred gave me, and that stuff is way too expensive for a cop's salary. Especially when you have to pay rent on two apartments."

"You have a bank account, Dick."

"Yeah, but using it would have meant admitting that I needed your help at a time when that was the last thing I wanted to do."

"You need more than one set. You can't walk around in compromised gear."

"I know. I'm sorry."

Bruce sighed and looked away. "It's all right. You survived. We'll fix it, though, okay?"

"Okay. Thanks." He hissed suddenly as a wave of nausea rolled through his stomach. "Um…I think there's some Percocet in the bathroom…?"

The older man almost ran the short distance to get it. Pawing through the medicine cabinet, he cursed himself for not getting him a pill before he packed the upstairs. He had meant to, but he'd gotten carried away with investigating the well-conceived work area and had forgotten. "My own damn fault," he muttered. "Should never have been screwing around like we were earlier. If I hadn't knocked him off the couch..." Spying the prescription bottle he wanted, he dashed back into the main room. "Here. Water?"

"No, don't bother," he whispered, swallowing it with a wince. "Are we ready?" he ground out.

"No. We need to get you past this before we do anything else." His mouth tightening as Dick moaned again, he moved him to the floor and helped him lay down. "Better?"

"Yeah…a little." Bruce sat behind him, rubbing his back in circles until he felt him start to relax.

"You stay here," he leaned down to speak against his hair. "I'll load the car, then come back for you. Will you be all right here? You don't feel like you're going to pass out, do you?"

"I think I'm okay. Just tired."

"I'll be right back." Pressing a kiss against his scalp, Bruce rolled to his feet, loaded his arms with bags, and headed for the stairs.

"I'll be…right here," floated on the air behind him.

He packed the car swiftly, forcing all of the black bin liners containing anything Nightwing-related into the trunk before proceeding to cram the back seat full of Dick's personal items. Slamming the door on the last suitcase, he made his way back inside and upstairs. "Feeling any better?" he asked, dropping to the floor again and recommencing his gentle massage.

"Yeah, it's started to work."

"Think you can make it to the car without being too obvious?"

"I think so. You, ah, should probably carry me back downstairs, though. If you don't mind, I mean."

Bruce didn't answer, choosing instead to just pick the other man up and start down. He set him down on the couch long enough to pull the bedroom fan cord three more times and watch in admiration as the stairs vanished seamlessly into the ceiling. Shaking his head slightly, he crouched down in the living room in a pose almost identical to the one he'd assumed a couple hours before. "Dick?" he broached quietly, seeing that his eyes were closed. "Are you ready to go?"

Lids fluttered open, letting bright blue through. "I'm ready. Let's go home, Bruce. Let's go home."


	6. Police Brutality

"Shit, we can't go home yet," Dick groaned almost as soon as they were in the car.

"You should be in bed," Bruce rebutted firmly. "We should have waited to do this much as it is. The last thing you need is to move around even more."

"I need to go to the precinct and tell them I'm quitting."

"You can do that over the phone."

"Bruce…I really can't. I've worked with those people for the last three years. We've been on stakeouts together. We've watched each other's backs. I've been in a couple of the guys' weddings. Calling instead of going in person to quit…that would be like you phoning in your resignation from the JLA to Uncle Clark. It just wouldn't be right. I owe them more than that."

He sighed, proud of the loyalty his son was exhibiting but aggravated that it meant more time would have to pass before he could tuck him safely into bed. "Fine," he agreed tersely, turning the car towards the station he knew Dick was assigned to. "But make sure you're fast about it. And don't be surprised if I give Alfred explicit permission to keep you drugged all day tomorrow. You won't heal right if you don't get some rest."

"I know. I have to do this first, though. I'll be as quick as I can be." When they pulled up in front of the drab concrete façade with a faded '41st precinct' etched over the entryway, he spoke again. "There's a visitors' lot around the back. I'll meet you there, okay?"

"I'm timing you," the driver warned. "If you take too long, I'm coming in after you."

Dick rolled his eyes. "I don't doubt it." Standing, he allowed himself just a moment to stabilize, resting his hand on the roof of the car. When he pushed off, he concentrated on keeping his gait steady, a difficult task given how stiff his side had become since breakfast. Reminded of food, his stomach pinched. _Maybe I can convince Bruce to swing in for some fast food on the way out of town,_ he thought, pushing a door open and entering the building that had become something like a second home to him.

"Ooh, Dick, honey, where've you _been_?" Cecelia squealed immediately, her southern drawl echoing off the high ceiling of the reception area. Over-curled blonde hair bounced above her shoulders as she rushed around the front desk to clutch at his arm. "Sergeant Lagrange's been stompin' round here like a bull when the cows're in heat. Heard her say earlier if she didn't hear somethin' from you soon she was gonna send Nick and Bozo to check."

Behind Cecelia he could see Danielle, the other main receptionist, on the phone, glancing up at him frequently. She had obvious called his sergeant the instant he'd walked in, so he steeled himself against the talon-like nails digging into his flesh and ventured a question. "How mad did you say she was, again?"

"Well, she ain't to rabid pitbull level yet, but she sure was gettin' close last time I saw her." The country-bred girl narrowed her eyes and peered up at him. "You feelin' poorly, doll? You're looking all peaky. Whyn't you come sit down?"

_Well, so much for no one noticing,_ Dick groaned internally. _If __Cecilia__ thinks I look bad, there's no way in hell Lagrange will miss it._ "I'm all right," he insisted, making his voice as light and unconcerned as he could. "Nothing to worry about. I'm just going to head back, okay?" he called over the blonde's head to Danielle. She frowned a bit, said something into the receiver, then nodded at him. "Got to go," he told the woman still attached to him, patting her hand until she got the hint and released her hold.

"Lagrange's in a weird mood today. Fair warning," Danielle muttered as he passed her.

"Thanks, Dee. You've always got my back."

"Well, Cecelia's so jealous of your _front_…" Dick laughed. Cecelia was sweet, and it was no secret around the station that she had quite possibly the world's biggest crush on him, but Dee was someone he could see himself actually having a relationship with. They'd never gone beyond light flirting for the simple reason that it would probably kill the other receptionist if she suspected they were involved, but he'd found himself thinking about her on more than one lonely night patrol.

"Don't you let her ride you too hard, handsome," Cecilia called after him as he started down the hallway towards the rear of the building. He glanced back and nodded his acknowledgement, then turned the corner and was out of sight. As soon as he saw that the way in front of him was clear, he stopped and slumped against the wall, trying to catch his breath. The Percocet had finally numbed him again, but it did nothing to curb his exhaustion.

"Grayson!"

He jerked upright, flinched, and bit back a moan at the breakthrough pain his sudden motion had caused. "Hi, Sergeant," he managed as a short, immensely capable looking brunette emerged from one of the rooms lining the corridor and stomped up to him.

"Grayson, you look like shit. Where have you been? You were due in at nine, and it's going on three thirty."

"Sorry, boss," he smiled weakly, trying to shore himself up in the face of the colossal chewing out she was bound to give him.

"Sorry doesn't cut it. Damn it, you're never late, so why today, of all days? And," she added, looking him up and down, "why aren't you in uniform?"

"Well, that's actually why I'm here. I have to qu-"

"Hold it," she ordered, raising a hand. "I've heard that line from plenty of others before you, but I don't intend to accept it out of your mouth. You're a special case. Come with me, there's someone I want you to talk to before you do anything stupid."

"…Okay," he frowned, following her the short distance back to the door she had emerged from. She stopped with her hand on the knob.

"Why are you walking like that?"

_Oh, fuck. I knew it._ "I don't know what you mean," he played it cool, not reacting even when she gave him an Alfred-class stare of disbelief.

"Really," she repeated skeptically. When he just looked at her stolidly, she snorted. "Fine. Have it your way."

Dick stopped short as he entered the room and found a familiar figure examining a file. "Captain Delaney," he addressed him, standing as close to attention as he could manage.

"Grayson. Have a seat."

He obeyed, uncertain where all of this was going.

"Do you know why you're here?" Lagrange asked from behind him. There was a hint of satisfaction in her voice, the same tone Dick had heard her use when she'd caught someone doing something wrong and was going to get to see them punished for it.

"No, I can't say that do, Sergeant." His voice was dead calm, not belying his internal terror in the least. _They must suspect something, _he thought. _She saw that I'm in pain, and she knows I wasn't hurt when I left here yesterday. She knows I'm quitting. More importantly, she's using that tone, like she's got something on me. How, though? I've been so careful. _"Why am I here? Have I done something wrong, other than my extreme tardiness today?"

"Your record is impressive," Delaney said quietly. "Very impressive, especially in one so relatively new to police work."

"…Thank you, sir," he accepted, flabbergasted. Captain Delaney was about as known for giving out praise as Batman was for giving out hugs.

"It makes a person wonder, you know. It took me thirteen years to rise from beat cop to detective. Thirteen long, bloody years of practice and study."

"…Sir?"

"I've known more than a few officers who never developed the skills they needed to really _solve_ crimes. They could generally manage to catch the criminal, once they were told where to wait and when to strike, but they didn't have the finesse to predict him. It takes years of experience. You, however," he raised his head and fixed sharp, almost-black eyes on the younger man, "seem to be a prodigy at it."

"I enjoy my work, sir," Dick said evenly. "I've always liked puzzles, things like that." _They can't know,_ he thought wildly. _I've taken every precaution, there's no way they could even __suspect__…_

"Puzzles," Delaney pondered. "Well, we have plenty of those upstairs. More than enough, I would think, even for someone with your unnaturally keen skills."

"I'm sorry, sir? I don't understand."

"You're being promoted, Grayson," Lagrange barked. "Captain Delaney's stealing you away from me."

Dick's head was spinning. "You…promoted?" he repeated slowly. He wanted to cry with relief; Nightwing hadn't even entered their thoughts. Still, though…promoted, now, when he'd just gotten things back together with Bruce? The timing was terrible.

"You'll have to complete the ninety day probationary period, of course," Delaney droned on. "But once that's complete you'll be awarded the rank of lieutenant. I'd like to put you in trafficking when it's all said and done. Sergeant Lagrange has told me you have a special knack for knowing who's likely to be where, and when, and why."

"Sir, I…Sergeant," he turned to her, eyes pleading. "Please." _You know what I'm here to do, or at least you seem to. Help me make this easier._

She chuffed slightly. "Don't be an idiot, Grayson. You can't turn this down."

"Turn it down?" Captain Delaney looked back and forth between the two of them. "I seem to be out of the loop."

"I…" _Oh, total hell_, bounced through his mind. "Sir, I came in here this afternoon to…well, to quit. To give up my badge."

Delaney blinked. "That seems very strange from a man who's missed exactly-" he referenced the file in his hands briefly "-two days of work in three years, and has as stellar of an arrest record as you do. What could possibly distract you, when you're so obviously dedicated to your job?"

"I'm needed at home, sir. Back in Gotham."

"Ah. The prodigal son returns, is that what this is all about? I know you were Bruce Wayne's ward until you came of age, Grayson, but that doesn't mean you can't make your own decisions now that you're an adult. This has nothing to do with him."

"He's a multi-billionaire, he can find someone else to do whatever it is he wants you for," Lagrange threw in.

_He already has! _his brain screamed. He caught himself before the words could exit his mouth, cleared his throat, and reiterated. "I'm needed at home. I'm very flattered, I really am, Captain, but I can't accept your offer."

"Hmm…" Delaney sat back in his chair and considered the out-of-uniform officer before him. The man had immense potential, and he wasn't going to lose him to the likes of a billionaire playboy if he could help it. What could be enticing him to give up the job he had dedicated himself to with such fervor for the last three years? More importantly, what could he counter-offer to make him stay? "What is he giving you that you can't have here?" he queried, deciding to ask outright. "If it's money, I would remind you that you will receive a substantial raise and an annual bonus once you've passed the probationary period. And you'll get that without feeling like you have to kowtow to daddy's wishes for it."

"Money has nothing to do with it, sir," Dick said rigidly, frowning at the jab towards Bruce.

"Mmm. You do project an aura of being above that sort of thing." He tried another tack. "But think about the respect that you would accord in your new position, the good you could do for this city." Dick shifted in his seat, and Delaney knew he'd scored a hit. "Anyone who knows you would be pleased to see you progressing through the ranks so quickly, Mr. Wayne included. He couldn't possibly object to your pursuit of such a noble career, regardless of what other plans he might have had for you. I don't see you as the type to sit around in board rooms all day in a suit and tie. At the rate you're going, you could find yourself offered your own precinct before you see thirty. That would, of course, make you the youngest Commander in Bludhaven's history. In Gotham's, as well, I believe. From there, of course, you'd be in a prime position to be named Commissioner. I wouldn't be surprised to see you become the youngest in that office as well, assuming you can keep your nose clean."

Dick swallowed heavily. It was a really fantastic image, and Captain Delaney had him pegged on the fact that he loved doing police work. He could feel Lagrange's eyes boring into the back of skull, begging him to say yes. The room started to fade as the reality of what he was being offered warred with what he knew he would have to give up in order to take it. "…I just don't know, sir," he managed to whisper, trying to keep his head.

"Damn it, Grayson!"

"Please, Sergeant Lagrange," Delaney stopped her. He could tell that he had shaken the pedestal under his officer a little; all that might be needed was a little time and a few family squabbles to put Grayson right back in Bludhaven. "I think it was unfair of us to expect an answer so soon. I'm sure that this quick skip up the ranks must come as a surprise, and maybe even be a bit daunting." Dick gave him a tiny nod. "Take a week, then. In fact, take two weeks, paid. Think it over." Standing, he slid an envelope across the desk and tapped it twice. "You've spent the last three years keeping the criminals from running this city, Grayson. Maybe it's time you stepped back and decided to do the same with your life."

He knew that the last of the Captain's words were meant as another subtle insult towards Bruce, but he didn't rise to the bait. Standing stiffly, he waited until Delaney was gone before he picked up the envelope. He stared at it for a long minute, then bit his lip and turned to leave. "…Sergeant?" he ventured when he found her blocking his way.

"Don't be a dumbass. _Take the job_," she hissed at him, glaring. She looked as if she wanted to say more, but his perplexed expression made it clear that he wouldn't really absorb anything she might add. She held her tongue and exited, mumbling something under her breath and slamming the door behind herself.

He gave her a few seconds to clear off before he ventured into the hallway himself. Seeing no one nearby, he made his way slowly back towards the entrance, having completely spaced that he was supposed to meet Bruce on the other side of the building. Part of him wanted to go down and say goodbye to anyone who might be hanging out in the bullpen, but a greater part didn't feel able to face anyone else cajoling him not to leave. He wondered if Lagrange had told any of the other officers about the offer he'd just been made. She probably had, he decided; it reflected well on her, too, so she had no doubt told everyone she could get to listen. It was her way.

"Sugar, you look like somebody just kicked your puppy," Cecelia gasped when he rounded the corner. Dropping her nail file, she prepared to bustle around to him. "She wasn't too mean to you, was she?"

"I didn't hear any yelling, so it can't have been that awful," Danielle joked. Then she looked up from her paperwork and saw his face. "Oh. Bad, huh?"

"No," he shook his head, a dazed look in his eyes as he met her gaze. He knew objectively that his injury was pairing with the shock of the offer he'd just received to make him feel completely weak, but neither of those things felt like the cause of the roiling uncertainty creeping into his belly. "Not bad, just…confusing."

"Thirty minutes," a voice boomed. Three faces, two surprised, one shell-shocked, focused on the form of Bruce Wayne as he swept up to the counter. "I don't care if you got no further into quitting than stopping here to flirt, you're out of time. Anything else that needs to be said can be told over the phone."

"_Quitting?!"_ The girls jinxed each other. Danielle looked back to Dick, her visage questioning. Cecelia froze and slapped her hand to her mouth, speechless.

"Yeah," Dick said vaguely, fingers tightening on the envelope. "I have to go now. Bye, Cecelia." He faced Danielle for the briefest of moments. "I'll…I'll see you later, Dee." With that, he headed for the door, feeling Bruce fall into step beside him. If he hadn't been so out of himself he might have chuckled to hear a very put-out Cecelia giving Danielle a none-too-gentle smack on the shoulder. Locked in a fog of conflicting emotions, he instead honed in on the car, parked illegally in front of the building, and climbed in without a word.

"You look like you're about to collapse. What the hell took so long?"

He just shook his head and closed his eyes.

"Dick?" The voice was suddenly much kinder, almost to the point of being unreal. A hand landed on his brow, testing his temperature, then slid briefly through his hair. "Lie back and get some sleep, son. We'll be home soon."

He forced his eyes open again. "Bruce?"

"It's okay," he said, staring at him, trying not to let his fear show. He sensed that something had changed in the last half hour, and that whatever it was had hit Dick hard. "We'll talk about it later."

"…Okay." And after that, he knew nothing for some time.


	7. Counsel

Dick awoke with a start and found himself peering up at familiar green swirls. So many hours of his childhood had been spent tracing shapes in the section of ceiling over his bed, picking out dragons, birds, planes, anything, really, that could take flight. It was a soothing exercise, meeting up with favorite old friends and occasionally finding new ones, but he doubted it would work tonight. His current crisis was too far outside of the realms of childhood for plaster fantasies to cure. "Damn it," he whispered to the dark. "What am I supposed to do now?"

"Master Dick?" came a voice and a slight knock on the door.

"Hey, Alfred," he called back, low. He didn't know what time it was, but it felt late. "You can come in, if you want."

"Thank you," the butler said, entering with the same tray he had delivered breakfast on that morning. He set it down nearby and came close, perching on the edge of the mattress with something in his hand. Dick realized what it was when the cool, damp washcloth ran slowly over his forehead and down along his throat. "I'll have you know that you had Master Wayne in quite a tizzy this afternoon," Alfred informed him gently.

"What? Why? He told me to go to sleep. I went to sleep."

"Taking a nap does not usually involve a fever of 102 degrees and the inability to be roused by the concerted efforts of two rather frantic adults."

Dick felt a surge of guilt. "Oh," he said lamely as the cloth was draped just below his hairline. He could picture the scene; Bruce going into papa bear mode when he realized his temperature was up, Alfred doing all of the standard medical checks with a pursed look on his careworn face, Bruce carrying him up the stairs and, no doubt, insisting on a second blanket. It wasn't a series of events he liked to be responsible for causing.

"While I supposed that your unconscious state was caused by the mild infection you developed in the course of gallivanting around Bludhaven with a fresh abdominal wound," Alfred continued, "Master Wayne seems to think that there is a psychological factor as well." He paused, looking down at him kindly. "Is there something you'd like to talk about?"

_Oh, Alfred, you have no idea,_ he thought. "I don't know," he said quietly. There was so much in his head right now that it hurt.

"I will gladly get Master Wayne for you, if you prefer to speak with him about it. He did leave orders for me to wake him the instant you seemed to be coming around. It was the only way he would agree to take a rest himself after I found him asleep on the carpet beside your bed."

"No!" Dick whispered urgently, hand flashing out and grabbing Alfred's wrist when he moved to go get Bruce. "Not him."

The butler appraised him for a long second. "I don't believe I have ever heard those words from you before, young sir. Something has changed, then." It was a statement, not a question, and it made Dick hang his head.

"I'm so confused, Alfred. I don't know what to do any more. I had it all figured out, and now…I'm just so confused."

"Does this have anything to do with your state of disrepair?" the Englishman inquired, pulling an envelope bearing the insignia of the Bludhaven police department from inside his jacket.

"…Bruce didn't read that, did he?"

"No. Fortunately I noticed the way you were gripping it despite your unconscious condition before he did and was able to keep it away from him. He knows of its existence, but not its contents. Nor," he added before the question could be broached, "have I read it."

"I don't know what it says, either," Dick admitted. "But I have a pretty good idea." Heaving a heavy sigh, he pushed himself upright and slipped out of bed, wincing at a glint of pain. Grateful that someone had seen fit to slip a pair of pajama pants on over his boxers, he shuffled over to the window, feeling Alfred's eyes on him. Pushing the curtain aside, he leaned against the window casement and stared out over the moonlit grounds of the manor. He had missed this view, had missed the manor, had missed _everything_. Now, just when he'd gotten his life back, Delaney had gone and confused him. Why, why had that bastard felt the need to point out that Dick Grayson had no real purpose in Gotham beyond being the son of Bruce Wayne? "What does it say, Alfred?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Would you mind reading it to me? I…I don't want to be the only one who knows what's in there."

"Of course." There was a rustle as he unsealed the envelope and pulled out a sheaf of correspondence stock. "There are several pages here."

"That's okay."

Alfred cleared his throat slightly, glanced towards the bedroom door to ensure that he had shut it behind himself, and read:

_From: Captain Charles Delaney, 41__st__ Precinct, Bludhaven PD_

_To: Officer Richard Grayson, 41__st__ Precinct, Bludhaven PD_

_Re: Retention and Promotion_

_Officer Grayson,_

_As you are no doubt aware, we recently completed our annual review of your personnel file. These reviews are intended to help us ensure that our personnel are receiving ample reward for their service and to monitor the developing capabilities of our officers. In the process of examining your record, I was struck by the immense talent that you have shown for police work, most especially for detection and prediction of criminal activity. In over twenty five years with the Bludhaven police department, I have never encountered a young officer with the level of potential you possess._

_Although it is unprecedented, I have appealed with the Commissioner on your behalf and been granted permission to make you the following offer. Effective immediately, you will be raised to the rank of Detective Sergeant. Following the completion of a satisfactory ninety day probationary period, you will awarded the rank of full Lieutenant and will be assigned to the Trafficking section. These promotions will come with the full package of commensurate pay, bonuses, and benefits as outlined in the Bludhaven PD Human Resources Career Advancement listing (see enclosed). _

_Given your current pace of advancement within the department, the Commissioner has expressed to me that he would like to see you heading your own investigative section within 18 months of your promotion to Lieutenant. I have no doubt that you will make this happen. While I hope that you will be allowed to remain with the 41__st__ precinct at that time, I am certain that you will excel anywhere you are placed. I look forward to working more closely with you in the near future._

_With Sincere Congratulations,_

_Captain Charles Delaney_

_P.S.-I noticed in my review of your file that you have taken extraordinary steps in the field on several occasions, and have been injured in the line of duty no less than four times in your three years of service. Based on this fact, I have submitted a recommendation that you be awarded a Special Merit ribbon and have placed you in the running for the Commissioner's Medal, which is awarded to only one officer per year in recognition of outstanding service to the citizenry of Bludhaven. I wish you the best of luck in both cases._

"The rest appears to be various forms and information regarding the items mentioned in the letter," Alfred finished. He was glad it was dark, because he could not keep his hands from shaking slightly. He was so proud he thought he might burst, but his delight was tempered by his realization that this offer had not been on the table when Dick had suggested that he come back to Gotham. This new development could change everything.

"…Wow," Dick murmured, dropping his head against the glass. The cool steadied him, seeping into his flushed skin as he considered what he had just been read. How could he turn down an offer like that? Guys went thirty years on the force without ever even being considered for a Special Merit ribbon, let alone for the Commissioner's Medal. He'd been put in for both after only a tenth of that time. "Fuck, Alfred, what am I going to do?!"

Fingers materialized on his shoulder. "This is not a decision you have to make right now, Master Dick," the butler reminded him.

"He'll never forgive me if I take it," he moaned, a tear sliding down his cheek.

"…Do you wish to take it?"

"I don't know," he sobbed. "I don't know what I want anymore. This morning, I knew. I was coming home, and everything was great. Batman and Nightwing…god, I wish you could have seen us out there last night, Alfred. We've never been that good together before."

"You were injured several times, however."

"No," Dick revealed, shaking his head. "I mean, I was, but it all happened before Batman showed up. After that, we were…we were amazing. Batman and Nightwing together out there, every night? Gotham's bad guys wouldn't know what hit them. But…Bludhaven needs Dick Grayson. Bludhaven _wants_ Dick Grayson. I don't know which side of myself to listen to." He broke down at that, shoving his fist against his mouth to keep the wails he wanted to voice from pouring out.

Alfred turned him around gently and pulled him close. "Shh," he whispered, feeling his heart ache for the young man in his arms. He had feared that a conflict of this nature might arise when he had first learned that Dick had taken a job with the Bludhaven police department. It was hard enough to fight crime as a moonlighter, in the way Bruce Wayne did; he couldn't imagine the intricacies that were involved with doing so in the guises of both regular citizen _and_ vigilante. The problem with having two identities, he reflected, was that the best course of action for one was often the worst course of action for the other. "Come and sit, child," he pressed, leading him back to bed.

Dick fell onto the mattress and curled up on his uninjured side, eyes still shut and leaking. He felt a hand begin to form soft circles on his back, and wondered briefly if that was where Bruce had gotten the method from. It was easy to imagine Alfred soothing a young Bruce in the same way that Bruce had so often soothed him. As comforting as it was, though, it didn't solve his problem, and that thought renewed his anguish, forcing fresh shakes through his entire body.

Never ceasing his slow caress, Alfred waited for him to cry himself out. When all that remained were occasional hitches in his breath and a few slow, fat tears, he spoke. "You said something enlightening a short while ago, Master Dick."

"…Huh?"

"You stated that Bludhaven _wants_ Dick Grayson."

"Yeah. I mean, you read the letter."

"Yes. I did. What struck me was that you did not state the equally obvious fact that Bruce Wayne wants you as well. I would venture to say that he wants you a fair bit more than the Bludhaven police department could ever want you."

"…Okay, I can see that, but…what is Bruce Wayne going to do with Dick Grayson?" It was weird talking about himself in the third person, but it felt right in the context of their conversation. "Captain Delaney said something earlier, when I went to quit. He said he didn't see me as a suit and tie guy. He was right, Alfred. I could never do what Bruce does every day, go and sit in shareholder meetings and sign contracts. But what else am I supposed to do? If I come back here, Nightwing might be happy, but that's only half the equation."

"Nightwing _might_ be happy, Master Dick?" Alfred sounded legitimately surprised. "You said yourself that Nightwing and Batman would be a force to be reckoned with on the streets of Gotham."

Silence spun out. "…What's Jason like, Alfred? I tried to find out from Bruce, but…he didn't want to talk about him."

"He is a great deal like you were at his age, although he is a bit more…willful, at times. You know, I assume, about his similar background to yours?"

"Yeah. Bruce told me that much." He closed his eyes against a fresh surge of salty water. "I still don't know what to do, though."

"If I may offer a bit of advice, young sir?"

"I'll take anything I can get, Alfred."

"Give things time. You are still freshly injured, and-" he felt his forehead again with a slight frown, "-still running a temperature. You are in no condition to make decisions beyond whether or not you want sugar in your tea, let alone to choose which path you'll take for the next chapter in your life." Patting his arm, the butler pulled the blankets back over him and stepped away from the bed. "I've brought you a glass of water and another pill. I'll just leave them on the nightstand for when you require them."

"…Thanks, Alfred."

"Try to rest, Master Dick. I'm sure things will look brighter in the morning." When no reply came, he picked up the empty tray and slipped out of the room, closing the door silently behind himself.

"I wish I could believe that, Alfred," Dick breathed when he was alone again. "I really, really do."


	8. Crisis Control

**Author's Note: Due to the fact that so many of you have been avidly keeping up with the story and have been so kind with your reviews, I'm posting a second chapter today. No worries, there won't be a lag in the rest of the story as a result; I fully intend to continue with the one-a-day chapter posting until we've reached the end of our little adventure together. Happy reading!**

In the kitchen of Wayne Manor, Alfred Pennyworth was facing a serious crisis.

_What is Bruce Wayne going to do with Dick Grayson? _The words echoed through his head over and over again, haunting him. It was a legitimate question, and one that he had no good answer for.

He slammed his hand into the counter before he even realized that he was moving. The glass he had just washed shattered, spitting pieces everywhere. Miraculously, none of them punctured his skin. "Oh, bloody hell," he murmured, and went for the dustpan.

What was he going to do with the overwrought men whose care had for so long been his greatest concern? Bruce was ecstatic at having his son back, thrilled with the prospect of having not only Dick but also Nightwing at his side. Alfred had watched him leave that morning on a high the likes of which hadn't been seen in the manor in three years at least, only to have him return a few short hours later an emotional wreck, utterly consumed with fear as he cradled his burning, muttering child in his arms. Had it been merely a physical ailment that had caused Dick to lapse into unconsciousness, he could have dismissed it as a father's natural worry. Having Bruce's admonition that there was a psychological root to the young master's distress verified, however, had made the threat of losing the boy again all too real, and as a result Alfred, too, had begun to fear.

As much as it pained the butler to see Bruce in such a state, it was Dick's predicament that was threatening to break his heart. Despite decades of practice in the theories of stoicism and the stiff upper lip, Alfred hadn't been able to hide his elation over the younger man's return a mere twenty four hours earlier, and he was having extreme difficulties suppressing his frustration now. He had followed Nightwing's career as closely as Batman had, and had been made equally proud by every newspaper headline. He had monitored the life of Dick Grayson as well, but somehow he had missed the fact that his surrogate grandchild was as excellent a crusader for justice during the daylight hours as he was in the night. And that was the problem, really.

The glass cleared from the floor, Alfred sat on the tile and sighed. Bruce had confessed to him, late one evening many years earlier, that what he really wanted for Dick was as normal and happy a life as possible. He had known it was a true sentiment at the time, and he had no doubt that it was still Bruce Wayne's primary hope for his son. What father, he thought to himself, wouldn't be overjoyed at the offer Dick had been made today? Not even the coldest moods of Batman could fail to be moved by the immense level of success in the field of criminal catching that the young man upstairs had reached. It was, after all, everything he had been trained for.

Footsteps approached, and Alfred climbed wearily to his feet, dustpan in hand. "Master Wayne," he greeted when he saw who had entered.

"Alfred." He glanced at the dustpan and raised an eyebrow.

"Broke a glass, sir. No problem, at least not with that."

"Oh." The billionaire pulled out a barstool and sat, facing his butler pensively. "How is he?"

"It's difficult to say, sir," he replied, disposing of the glass.

"I looked in on him before I came down. He's still warm."

"His temperature has receded somewhat. I checked it myself a short time ago. He was coherent, so there's no reason to think that it did him any damage."

"He was awake?" Bruce asked eagerly, so happy to hear the good news that he forgot to be mad about not having been alerted to the fact immediately. "Did he say anything about the envelope? About what was in it?"

Alfred gritted his teeth and let a lie slip through his lips. "No, sir. He didn't." Dick obviously hadn't wanted Bruce let in on the contents of the envelope just yet, and Alfred had no intention of betraying his trust unless it was absolutely necessary. Replacing the broom and pan, he decided to make up for his untruth by sharing some of what he had gleaned from their conversation. "I feel there is something that you need to know, Master Wayne," he intimated.

"What is it?"

"He seems to be uncertain of what you plan to do with him."

"What? Why? He said it himself last night; Nightwing and Batman, partners."

"No, sir," Alfred clarified. "He's concerned about what you mean to do with Dick Grayson."

"…I hadn't thought that far ahead, to be honest. I was just so happy to have him home, I thought we could enjoy that for a while."

"You did not raise an idle son, sir. For the past three years, while Nightwing has run the rooftops of Bludhaven, Dick Grayson has walked her streets. He seems content with the idea of Nightwing and Batman, although I sense that he is slightly uneasy about Master Jason's presence. That seems likely to pass with time, especially seeing as how Master Dick has always had a penchant for finding something to like in almost everyone who crosses his path. What truly bothers him is what the partnership will mean for his life outside of Nightwing. He has to feel useful in both of his roles in order to keep himself balanced, and I believe that right now he cannot imagine how Richard Grayson will be of use in Gotham."

"…He's of use to _me_, damn it," Bruce whispered.

"I fear that may not be enough to keep him here, sir. Only enough to destroy him completely if he leaves."

"Destroy him completely? What the hell are you talking about?!"

"He was very distraught earlier, sir. He fears that you won't understand if he changes his mind."

"I don't intend to give him that option." The words were growled, and Alfred's look grew dour.

"I suggest you scale that side of yourself back, Master Wayne. Batman is not the father he needs right now. Bruce Wayne is."

Slowly, Bruce returned, his posture relaxing as a look of fatigue battled its way back into his eyes. "I'll find him something, Alfred. I'll…I'll get right to work on it tomorrow. Just don't let him leave, okay? Don't let him do anything rash while I'm working on this."

The butler shook his head. "Honestly, Master Wayne, do you think I'd let him leave this house with a fever and a fresh gunshot wound? Your company is the only reason he didn't find himself tied to his bed today."

Bruce smiled wearily. "Thanks, Alfred." He stood up and stretched, yawning.

"You still have time for a few more hours of sleep, sir."

"…I think I'll take them in Dick's room. Wake me at the normal time, would you? I have a lot of phone calls to make."


	9. Someone Old, Someone New

**Author's Note: Many of you have expressed your excitement to see Jason arrive on the scene, and I know it's been delayed longer than some of you would have liked. For the sake of clarification, Jason in this story is based off of the pre-Crisis storyline - hence the blond hair and non-delinquent background. The idea is that he's a more or less normal ten year old, albeit with some hints as to the ethos he follows as an adult in later stories. I hope you enjoy the way I've written him here.**

Dick woke to a virtually inaudible knocking and groaned at the sunlit room. "Alfred?" he asked, staring towards the door. "Is that you?"

It swung open a few inches and stopped. Dick tensed and sat up, suspicious. Alfred would have just come in upon hearing his answer, and Bruce probably wouldn't have knocked at all, so who was there? "…Jason?" he ventured.

At that, the door advanced a few extra centimeters. Now he could make out an eye on the other side, peeking in at him. "Jason. You can come in, I don't bite."

Chewing his lip, the blond child tiptoed into the room and closed the door, jumping when the latch clicked into place. Once inside he seemed to lose his nerve and stood, staring, for several long seconds. It made Dick nervous until he recognized the look on the boy's face as one he himself had worn on many occasions. "Let me guess; hiding from Alfred?"

Jason looked a little taken aback by his knowledge of the situation. "How'd you guess?" he demanded, crossing his arms.

"I've hidden from him myself a time or three."

"…Really?" Intrigued, he took a single step nearer to the bed.

"Sure." Dick grinned, remembering. "When I was about your age, I knew Alfred was outside doing something and wouldn't hear me, so I started jumping on Bruce's bed. His is _way_ bouncier than mine." He paused at the glint that appeared in Jason's eye at that and wondered if he had just given the child a bad idea. "Anyway, I made a big pile of pillows on the floor and started jumping from the bed onto them so I could practice some flips. Well, about the third time I landed, I heard this weird noise, and suddenly there were all of these feathers everywhere." There was a little laugh. "I knew I was going to be in so much trouble. I started shoving all the feathers I could find back into the pillowcase, but I heard Alfred coming upstairs right in the middle of it. There was no way I could make it look like I hadn't been doing anything, so I ran and hid."

"…Did he find you?" Jason whispered, now huddling a mere foot away from the edge of the mattress.

"Of course. Alfred knows every nook and cranny in this place. But it did take him three hours."

The blond giggled at that. "I bet he was _soooo_ angry!"

"Oh, you have no idea. I didn't get to go on patrol for the whole weekend."

Jason's shoulders slumped at that. "I don't get to go on patrol at all yet. Bruce says I'm not ready."

"Yeah?" He knew how that felt; hell, _he_ wanted to go on patrol, too, but there was no way that either Bruce or Alfred was going to let him until his stitches came out. Provided, of course, that he decided to stay, he reminded himself, feeling the good mood that had come in with Jason start to dissipate with that thought. "That sucks. Bruce knows what he's talking about, though. He'll let you go along when you're ready."

"That's what Alfred says, but it doesn't make me feel any better."

"Yeah…he's usually right, though."

Jason just shrugged, scuffing his shoe on the floor. "Alfred told me yesterday you're going to stay here now. He says you used to stay here, and go out on patrol, but then you went away." He paused. "Are you going to stay here again, Dick?"

It took him a second to realize that the butler would have told the boy his name along with his backstory. "I don't know yet," he admitted. "I thought I was, but…some things changed yesterday, and now I don't know anymore."

"Oh." The boy seemed a little put out at his uncertainty.

"So…what did you do? Why are you hiding right now?"

"…You know the squirrels that get into the attic?"

Dick nodded. It didn't matter how many contractors Alfred called out to find and seal every possible entrance, squirrels consistently managed to find their way inside. The butler had kept live traps in the attic since before Dick had arrived at the manor, and always removed the animals he caught to a park on the other side of Gotham.

"Well, I was up there today cause there's no school. It's a teacher workday. So I was up there, and there was this squirrel in one of the cages. It was being really noisy, and I could see where it had chewed on one of the boxes next to the cage. It had made a big hole in the box, and there was stuff falling out on the floor. Pictures and stuff."

"…Bruce's pictures?" Dick ventured, well aware that the vast majority of the items in the attic dated to the first years of the older man's life, the years before the murder of his parents.

"Yeah. And it made me angry, because I could see where it had chewed some of the pictures, too." Dick cringed a little at that, hoping that that fact wouldn't make it to Bruce's ears. "So I killed it."

"Whoa, what?!" He stared at the boy who was now sitting on the edge of the bed and kicking his legs unconcernedly. "You…Jason. You _killed_ it? How?"

"I have a knife."

"…Oookay."

"It was my dad's. Bruce let me keep it after…when I came here. And I was mad at the squirrel, so…" he shrugged. "I killed it with my knife." Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out an ancient-looking Tom Mix and handed it solemnly over. "See?"

Dick could see, all right. There was still blood on the blade, growing tacky now but obviously fresh. He handled it gingerly, not wanting to come in contact with any of the gooey substance. "Jason, I know you were really angry at that squirrel," he said slowly. The last thing he wanted to do was lecture the kid, but he had to make it clear that killing wasn't something he should get in the habit of doing. "But that was not the right solution to your anger."

"…So what, you're on Alfred's side, huh? That's exactly what he's going to say. That's why I'm hiding from him, so I don't have to hear about it. I didn't do anything wrong, the _squirrel _did."

His head jerked up at the disdain he heard in the boy's voice. "No, Jason, calm down. I'm not upset with you. I'm not going to get you in trouble. I'm just saying that next time you're mad, you should find another way to work it out. A way that doesn't involve stabbing anything." He passed the knife back. "Okay?"

"…Yeah. Sure. Whatever." Shoving his inheritance back into his pocket, Jason's demeanor switched back to that of a normal ten year old. It threw Dick for a loop to watch his expression go from stormy to sunny like that; it was as if someone had thrown a switch in the boy's head. "You want to do something not boring?" the blond queried suddenly, rising to his knees and scooting closer.

"Like what?" He decided to let the squirrel issue be for the moment; Alfred would no doubt find it, tell Bruce, and it would be handled from there. He had done what he could for now, and decided to focus on getting used to this new addition to the Wayne household rather than muse over the child's strange shifts in character, or worse, alienate him. Even if he decided not to stay in the long run, he still wanted to know his little brother.

"Like _not_ lay around in bed all day. That's really boring."

"I agree," he laughed. "It isn't exactly my idea of a fun time, either."

"Alfred said you got hurt, that's why you have to stay in bed."

"Yup."

"Were you on patrol?"

"Sure was. That's why Bruce won't let you go out until you're ready; it can be really dangerous sometimes."

"Oh."

"I'll tell you what," Dick said, suddenly thinking of something he could probably get away with doing that didn't involve staying under a pile of blankets. "What if we go down to the cave and you show me some of the stuff Bruce has taught you so far?" It would let the kid burn off some energy and he could reacquaint himself with a familiar old haunt. Plus, he would get to see just how good the boy really was.

"Yeah! I'm never allowed down there when Bruce isn't home, but I'll bet I won't get in trouble if I'm down there with you!" He bounced off the bed, clearly excited. "C'mon, c'mon!"

"Give me a second, I have to get up and find some clothes." Wincing, he levered himself out of bed opposite of where Jason was running in circles. Thankfully, the room only spun a couple of times before it steadied.

"Whooooaaa!"

"…What?" he craned his neck to see what had gotten Jason's attention and found him standing on the mattress right behind him. "Gah, Jesus, what are you doing back there?"

"That's such a cool tattoo!" Small fingers tripped over his inked shoulder blades, tracing the edges of a few feathers and not seeming to mind the scars along the way.

Dick grinned. "Thanks."

"Is it cause you're Nightwing?"

"…Alfred told you that too, huh?"

"Yeah. He told me all about you." He paused. "He said we're a lot alike. Do you think we are?"

"…In some ways," Dick agreed, walking towards one of the suitcases stacked beside his closet. _I never killed anything bigger than a mosquito on purpose_, he thought. _That's the biggest difference so far._

"Cool. Do you know, like, secret moves and stuff? Bruce said that there's stuff you can do that he didn't teach you. Stuff that he never figured out how to do."

"…He said that?" Dick asked in shock, stopping halfway through buttoning his shirt.

"Yeah. He says it all the time. He always says stuff like that about you when he's training me."

"That must get pretty old," Dick said, his tone one of commiseration. Inside, though, he was swelling with happiness.

"Well, obviously. Who wants to hear him brag on about some guy they've never even met? But it's okay, you're pretty cool, I guess. I mean, you know, for an adult."

"Thanks."

"So, can you teach me some secret stuff?"

"If Bruce will let me, sure."

"Excellent."

"All right, let's go so you can strut your stuff downstairs. Maybe if we're really careful we can _both_ slip past Alfred." He really wasn't in the mood to be reminded that his body needed rest. "We'll have to be super quiet, though. Think you can do it?"

"Yeah. I can do it." He frowned at the implication that his skills might not be up to par, dark clouds threatening to cover the sun for the second time in fifteen minutes.

"All right, bro, no need to get pissy." As soon as the last word left his mouth he realized it wasn't something one usually said in front of ten year olds. _This whole being a responsible adult thing is really hard when there's a kid around_, he thought. He suddenly felt a surge of compassion for Bruce. "All you have to do is prove it."

"Let's go," Jason whispered, and snuck out of the room. A second later a board creaked in the hallway.

Dick just shook his head, trying not to laugh. The kid had a long way to go.


	10. Inside Information

In his office at Wayne Enterprises, Bruce dropped his head into his hands and felt like crying. He'd run through a hundred ideas of jobs he could line up for Dick, but none of them fit. None of them felt like the kind of thing that would be active enough for him while still challenging him mentally.

"What can I say to make you realize how much I need you here?" he whispered, reaching out to run a finger down the picture he kept on his desk at all times. It was Dick's Bludhaven PD academy graduation photo, the most recent shot that Bruce had of him. Alfred had gotten his hands on it somehow, just a few months after their last argument, and presented it to him. He'd never inquired as to how the butler had obtained it, instead simply giving it pride of place in a spot that was never far from his eyes. It was the one thing in his office that not even the cleaning crew was allowed to move; he dusted under it himself occasionally, but wouldn't let anyone else touch it for fear of something happening.

"Mister Wayne?" his secretary's voice came through his intercom. "Commissioner Gordon is here to see you."

"…Is it urgent?" Gordon was the last person he felt like talking to at the moment, especially since it was likely to just be some trivial detail regarding the upcoming annual Gotham Police Charity Ball that the man wanted to hash out for the twelfth time. Bruce had far more important things to attend to this morning than whether or not he was going to present the Wayne Enterprises donation on stage personally and who he'd settled on as an escort for the evening.

"He came by to offer his congratulations. Something about Dick, he said."

That wasn't what Bruce had been expecting to hear, but it was certainly enough to pique his interest. "…I'll see him," he said after a moment's pause. There was just enough time to wipe a nearly invisible smudge from the photo's glass before the door opened and he had to leave off. "Commissioner," he greeted, rising to shake the other man's hand. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Oh, the pleasure is all mine. Yes, indeed." Taking a seat, the head of Gotham's police department beamed at him. It wasn't a look that either Bruce Wayne or Batman was used to seeing on his face, and as such it caused the billionaire to shift uneasily in his chair. "I received an interesting phone call from the Police Commissioner for Bludhaven this morning," his visitor pushed on, his voice strangely merry.

"…Oh?" _What the hell is he talking about? What does the Bludhaven Commissioner have to do with Dick? I can't imagine that they would call that high up the chain about an officer's simple resignation, let alone pass the info along to the Gotham PD. Even if they did, why would Gordon be congratulating me about it?_

"…No need to be so humble, you should be proud! Damn, _I'm_ proud, and he isn't even my kid!"

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about," Bruce apologized, now genuinely puzzled.

"Well, I'm talking about Dick's promotion, of course!"

The world froze as the words hit him. "…His _what?!_"

Gordon's face grew cautious. "…Don't tell me he hasn't called yet," he said in disbelief. "I know you two have had your disagreements, but surely this is the kind of news that transcends any argument standing between you right now. I mean, to jump from being a beat cop to a full Lieutenant in the short time he's been on the force…that's unprecedented even in Gotham's police history. I understand he's been put in for two rather important citations, as well, and is expected to receive them both. I swear that the Bludhaven Commissioner only called to rub it in my face – I never did understand why Dick joined up with the Bludhaven PD, he would have been more than welcome here, you know – but it's such great news that I'm having trouble being upset about it. I've always known that boy would go far."

"…Full Lieutenant? Citations?" Bruce was flabbergasted. _No wonder he was so out of himself yesterday. That must have been what was in the envelope Alfred wouldn't let me have. If they made him that offer when he tried to quit, on top of what Alfred said has been bothering him about coming back home…Oh, Christ, Dick, my poor, confused boy, why didn't you __tell__ me?!_

"Yes. They're already talking about giving him his own investigative unit, can you believe that? Apparently he has a ridiculously large amount of talent for predicting criminals." The Commissioner gave the man across from him a covert look. "No idea where he might have developed that," he tacked on, pausing to examine his nails.

"Me, either," Bruce said distractedly, having no desire to play cat and mouse with Gordon today. "I wish I'd known sooner," he shook his head. "Thank you for letting me in on the news."

"I'll tell you something, I wish I had a man like him on my force. From what I've heard, Dick's superiors are already taking bets on how long it will be before he catches all of Bludhaven's criminals for the department and puts Nightwing – you know, their version of Batman? – out of business. What a thought, eh? A cop so good you don't need vigilantes!"

Bruce Wayne had had many brilliant ideas in his day, but never before had he experienced the exact feeling of a light going on inside of his head. His eyes fell to Dick's graduation photo. _He looks so good in a police uniform,_ he thought fondly. _Why didn't I think of this before? _"Commissioner Gordon," he said, excitement making his voice shake a little, "With your help, I may be able to arrange something that will make us both very happy men."


	11. Catharsis

Alfred looked up from his dusting as Bruce Wayne strode into the entry hall of the manor, whistling a jaunty tune. "…Sir?" the butler ventured, slightly concerned that the man may have lost his mind since that morning.

"Is Dick awake, Alfred?"

"Yes, Master Wayne. He and Master Jason were down in the cave a short time ago. Master Jason was demonstrating his skills."

"Right to work," Bruce shook his head. "Did they seem to be getting along all right?"

"As I mentioned this morning, sir, Master Dick has rarely met with anyone he couldn't find something to like about."

"And Jason?"

"Master Jason is more difficult to read, but he seemed to be enjoying showing off."

"Good. That's good."

"…I don't wish to pry, sir, but have you achieved any success regarding Master Dick's purpose in Gotham?" Under normal circumstances the Englishman would never have asked such a question, but seeing as how its answer would directly impact the ability of his small family to hold together he allowed himself to make the inquiry.

"Oh, Alfred, you have no idea," Bruce answered with a grand, self-satisfied smile. That was all that the butler needed to hear for a huge weight to lift from his shoulders. Resuming his chore, he had to consciously stop himself from humming the same happy song that had been on Bruce's lips when he entered the house.

The Wayne patriarch found them in the cave, exactly where Alfred had said they were. Glad to see that Dick was monitoring Jason's performance from a chair, he drew up behind him noiselessly, not wanting to break the spell of the moment.

"Hey, Bruce."

"…I didn't think you heard me."

"I didn't have to. Sometimes I have this weird sixth sense for knowing where you are. I think I developed it over all those years of being paranoid when you would go on patrol without me and I would sneak down here after bedtime to practice."

"I usually caught you anyway."

"You did at first, sure." He tilted his head back and stared up at him. "You didn't really think I stopped doing it as I got older, did you? I just got better at knowing when you were coming, and at hiding where you wouldn't find me."

Bruce blinked at him, astounded. "Don't tell Jason about that," he said firmly.

Dick just gave him a quicksilver grin and went back to watching the show. "Nice," he complimented when the boy landed in a roll. "You can tuck tighter than that, though."

"I guess I could, if I wanted to," Jason shrugged noncommittally.

"You'll want to, when there are people shooting at you."

"Yeah, but that will never happen if I never get to go out on patrol." He looked pointedly away from Bruce as he spoke.

Dick didn't answer, knowing it wouldn't help the situation. Bruce's response was far less understanding than his would have been. "Go upstairs and study, or play, or something," the billionaire ordered. "Dick and I need to have a talk."

"What'd _you_ do to get in trouble?" Jason asked, a look of surprise on his face. "You haven't even been here two days!"

"Hey, didn't I tell you I used to be trouble maker numero uno around here?" He joked, but his insides were twisting. He still didn't feel ready to talk about his promotion, and more importantly about his uncertainty as to his role in daylight Gotham, with Bruce. Not while he was still so unsure as to which way he was going to choose.

"Well, yeah, but…"

"Jason," Bruce said in exasperation.

"Maybe later we can start working on one of those 'special moves' you asked about, huh?" Dick cut in, hoping that the promise of more practice soon might be sufficient to make the boy leave before Bruce exploded.

"After dinner?" Jason asked.

"Sure. So long as Bruce gives permission."

"…Bruce?" The blond looked up at him beggingly.

"Not if you don't go upstairs like I told you to."

"Okay, okay, I get it!" He took off, thundering up the stairs and out of sight.

"…You're good with him, Dick," Bruce said when they were alone. He sat down facing his son and gave him a serious look. "We need to talk."

He sighed deeply. "I know. I'm just…afraid of what you're going to say. Of how upset you'll be when I tell you what's going on." He hung his head, unable to meet the older man's gaze.

Bruce rolled his chair up until they were knee-to-knee and reached out to take his hands. "How could I be upset with you for doing so well at your job that you're breaking records left and right?" he asked quietly. "How could you think I would be angry with you for that?"

Dick stared at him. "How do you know about that?" he choked, heat flooding his face. "Did…Alfred didn't tell you, did he?"

"No," he shook his head. "Alfred didn't betray your secret. In fact, I suspect that he lied to my face in order to keep it." He smiled at that, not surprised. He knew from years of experience that when they put their minds to it the duo of Dick and Alfred could be a formidable team, especially when it came to pulling the wool over his eyes. "Commissioner Gordon came to see me this morning in order to congratulate me on the excellent promotion you'd been offered in Bludhaven. Imagine my surprise when he then informed me that you're also receiving two very elite awards for outstanding service."

"Well, I mean, I got put in for them, but that doesn't mean I'll _get _them," Dick blushed even darker.

"That's not what the Bludhaven Commissioner implied to Gordon."

"…Oh. Um…Wow." _Cause __that__ doesn't complicate things even further at all. _"Fuck," he whispered without meaning to. "Sorry," he apologized immediately.

Bruce just squeezed his hands. "Adult problems require adult words," he allowed quietly. "So tell me what the problem is, Dick. Explain it to me. I promise, I won't be mad."

"It seems like you already know, more or less."

"Mm. I have a few ideas. But I'd like to know what _you_ think the problem is. I want to know what horrible thing you're dealing with that's so awful you didn't want to tell me about it, when you know you can tell me anything."

Dick sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "I just didn't want to start fighting again, Bruce. It took us so long to get things back to normal, and I just…I just couldn't stand the thought of going another three years without hearing your voice." He broke into sobs as the last few words were spoken, wet trails cascaded down his cheeks.

"Hush," Bruce murmured, one hand rising to wipe the tears from his son's anguished face. "Hush. It's all right. Dick, look at me." He did so, sniffling, eyes almost neon under the excess moisture. "I will _never_ let that kind of time pass without speaking to you again. Not for anything. If they locked you up in Arkham tomorrow, even if it was for some legitimate reason, I would still come to you as often as I could. Do you understand that?"

He hitched in a sharp breath, his eyes widening. "…Really? Even…even there? You'd come?"

"_Yes. _Until the day I died, Dick." He carded his fingers through dark locks and cupped the side of his face. "Now, please, tell me. Tell me everything."

Slowly, Dick obliged, pouring it all out. His burning desire to run with Batman again, but now as his own man, as Nightwing. His fear that by walking away from the opportunity he'd been offered in Bludhaven he'd be betraying not only that city, but also himself, and the dream of a somewhat normal life that he knew Bruce had always harbored for him. His need to feel useful, to believe that he was making a difference in the lives of others, regardless of whether the sun was up or not. Once he started, the words tumbled out of his mouth, sometimes coming so quickly that he was sure there was no way Bruce could decipher them. And yet the older man seemed to hear every one perfectly, nodding at exactly the right moments and knowing, the instant the last nerve was bared, that what Dick needed more than anything right then was to be pulled over onto his lap and just held.

They stayed like that for a long time, silent, Bruce pushing the chair from side to side with one foot lazily. "I love you so much," he whispered eventually.

"I love you too. I want to be _here_, Bruce. I do. I just don't know how."

"Well, let's talk about that."

"Okay."

"Tell me what you think of Jason." He knew that wasn't what Dick was most concerned about, but it seemed kinder to start with an easy question.

"I like him. I think he's got some…issues…but I don't think that they're anything that we can't help him work out."

"…You don't feel threatened by him taking over Robin, do you?"

"I did at first, to be honest. I thought maybe, you know, Batman didn't really need Nightwing after all. I was scared when Alfred told me his parents were acrobats, too. It sounds really childish now, but I was afraid that he'd be better than me at the thing I do best. I'm not saying that he isn't good, because he is, but after I watched him today I realized that there are some things he will never be able to match Nightwing at. There are some things he'll never match Batman at, either. His style is more this…this weird amalgam, somewhere between Batman's brute force tactics and Nightwing's hit and go method."

"Liquid motion," Bruce said softly, remembering how those words had crossed his mind the very first time he'd ever laid eyes on the man – then such a small boy – in his arms.

"Yeah. He'll never quite get there. To the untrained eye, sure, he'll appear to be a master of both techniques. I can make brute force look good, but I've got nothing on you in that arena. It's the same the other way; you're pretty damn limber when you want to, but put me next to you doing the same thing and there's no competition. He's stuck somewhere in between. If he sticks with night work and really searches, I think he can find some other way that really _fits_ him – maybe something with blades, he seems to have a thing for knives - but it won't be Batman's way, and it won't be Nightwing's, either. Realizing that he's different, that he's an addition, not a replacement…that really helped."

"No one could replace you, Dick. No one could replace Nightwing, either. Others might be able to fill in when the need is there, but they could never take your place. Not in my heart, and not at Batman's side. Don't you ever let anyone make you think otherwise."

"…Thank you. I needed to hear that."

"You're welcome. So, do you want to help train him?"

"Yes. I really do like him, Bruce."

"You like everyone. That's what Alfred says, at least."

"It's not true, technically, but I'll take the compliment."

"So that takes care of Nightwing's worries."

"More or less. But Nightwing wasn't the biggest problem."

"No, Dick Grayson was. And I think I may have a solution for that."

Dick tilted his head to look up at him. "…Really?"

"I told you I had Commissioner Gordon in my office today."

"Yeah…"

"He was pretty jealous of the Bludhaven Commissioner."

"Yeah?"

"Seemed to think it was a bad deal that Gotham raised you but Bludhaven got all of the adult talent."

"Yeah…?!" He straightened, swallowing heavily as hope blossomed in his chest.

"So I made him a deal. You don't have to take it, of course…"

"What is it?"

"I mean, it's completely up to you, I wouldn't want you to feel unduly pressured by my involvement…"

"_What's the deal_?"

"You're all grown up now, I'll understand if you want to take the promotion in Bludhaven instead…"

The man was insufferable, toying with him like this, completely unable to conceal his teasing grin as he watched him become more and more agitated. "Bruce, damn it, tell me the deal!"

"…Lieutenant Richard Grayson, Special Investigator, Commissioner's Task Force for Violent Crimes. Effective two weeks from the date of acceptance. And, your Bludhaven record will carry over, so you still get your special citations and credit for time already served." His smile was so broad by the time he finished getting it all out that he thought his lips might crack.

Dick was on his feet, gaping. "No fucking way!" he gasped. "No. Fucking. _Way!_" he repeated, screaming it the second time before tackling the still-seated Bruce in a monstrous hug. The chair overturned, dumping them unceremoniously onto the cold floor of the cave. Neither one of them noticed; they were too busy laughing, deliriously happy, in each other's arms. "Yes! Yes, yes, oh _hell_ yes!"

"Will that be sufficient to keep Dick Grayson _and_ Nightwing happy in Gotham?"

His answer was another joyful shriek.

"…If I may interrupt, sirs?" Alfred inquired steadily, observing them from the bottom of the stairs. When they had quieted somewhat, clearing their throats in mild embarrassment, he continued. "Assuming that all of the necessary decisions have been made and that Master Dick doesn't require a fresh round of stitches after your little…tussle," he announced, "dinner is served." Then he turned away and headed back for the kitchen, not wanting them to see him swiping at the wetness in his eyes.

Throwing each other glances and giggling, Bruce and Dick stood up and made to follow the butler. "…You didn't hurt yourself, did you?" Bruce asked as they brushed their clothes off.

"No. You were careful, even if you didn't realize it."

"Good."

Just before they left the cave, Dick nudged the other man. "Hey, Bruce, guess what?" he bantered.

"What?"

He gestured back over his shoulder at the chair, still lying on its side. "Now we're even. War's over." He smiled, but it quavered a little under the loaded words.

Bruce pulled him into a rib-cracking embrace for just a moment. "The war to end all wars," he confided before he release him. "Come on. Let's get upstairs before Alfred kills the both of us."

"Think he knows what just happened?" Bruce just looked at him. "Oh, who am I kidding?" Dick laughed at himself. "Alfred knows everything."

With that they trooped up the stairs side by side, leaving the cave in silence.

**Author's Note: This may feel like the end, readers, but I have one last trick up my sleeve. Watch for an epilogue chapter tomorrow. Also, I'd like to tip my hat to reader 5-STAR, who picked up on the direction I was heading with Dick's career several chapters ago. Happy reading!**


	12. Epilogue: Brotherly Love

A few days before his debut with the Gotham police department, Dick stood in front of the triptych mirror in Bruce's room and examined himself. He had been surprised to learn that the Commissioner's Task Force for Violent Crimes had its own uniform, unique to any other worn in Gotham. Gordon had delivered several of the outfits to the manor himself the day before, staying long enough to sip a cup of Alfred's best tea blend and discuss Dick's new job. From the sound of things, he would be getting paid to do the exact same investigative research and assault planning that he would have spent his evenings doing for free as Nightwing. He'd wanted to call Bruce right then to reveal how much time they were going to save this way, having the information they needed for patrol come home with Dick every day, but he knew better than to discuss night work on an unsecured line.

In the end, he'd relied on an intense round on the uneven bars to keep himself from picking up the phone. Alfred had fretted the entire time he was gliding and flipping, he knew, but his stitches were out and there really wasn't much the butler could say to stop him as a result. It had felt good to stretch muscles that had been lax for almost two weeks, reminding them what they were there for. Glancing over at one point to find Jason staring up at him, completely entranced, Dick had _really_ started to push himself, determined to give the kid a show. By the time he'd come back out of the fog a good go on the bars always put him in, Bruce had arrived home and was watching, too.

"Still got it?" he'd asked, panting as he hung upside down with his hands dangling towards the floor.

"That was so cool," Jason breathed, looking truly impressed. "Teach me how to do that!" Dick smiled at him before turning his questioning eyes towards a pensive-looking Bruce.

"You were a world-class gymnast before you left, Dick," the older man said slowly. "Now…I can't imagine that anyone could even come close. You've far outstripped anything I taught you in that realm."

"Thanks." Glowing, he dropped to the floor and rolled easily to his feet. "_That's _how you should be tucking," he pointed at Jason. "Tight."

"Can I try?"

"No," Bruce had said immediately. "You, young man, are still very grounded. You're lucky I don't extend your punishment for sneaking down here."

"I was just watching! I didn't do anything! Dick, help me out here!"

Dick had given the child a sympathetic look, but only spoke to acknowledge that all he had witnessed him doing was sitting and observing. Jason was grounded for a good reason; Alfred had found the squirrel within 24 hours of its demise, and it hadn't taken long for the truth of the matter to come out. He still had several more days to go on his punishment, which included a prohibition on training as well as on television and video games. While Gotham PD's newest detective felt for him, he knew how important it was that the lesson about killing become firmly rooted in the boy's head before it was too late. He was willing to tell things like they were, but he wasn't going to push for laxer treatment. Not when killing was involved.

"I'll let it slide, but only because Dick vouched for you. Understand?"

"Okay. I get it." Jason had trudged upstairs after that, anger writ large on his face, and had stewed for the rest of the evening and up through the afternoon of the next day. So far as Dick knew, the boy was still holed up in his room, seething.

"It looks good on you," Bruce intoned from the doorway, breaking into the other man's thoughts. It was funny, he considered as he took it in, how the job that would essentially let Dick be Nightwing during the day even came with clothes in the right shades. The blue piping, department insignia, and – Dick's favorite part, he knew without asking – Lieutenant's bars stood out brilliantly against the black of the uniform body, combining with his hair and eyes to make a stunning picture. "You were born to wear those colors."

A flash of white teeth. "Thanks, dad," he whispered. Bruce bit his lip; he knew Dick would never make a habit of calling him anything other than his given name – he wasn't sure he would want him to, to be honest - but that just made the rare instances when he was awarded the more familiar title all the more special.

"Patrol tonight?" he asked around the block of emotion in his throat.

"Definitely. It's time to introduce Gotham to Nightwing." He paused. "I've been thinking about Bludhaven."

"Oh?" Bruce wasn't fazed; he knew Dick was home to stay. "What about it?"

"Well, the one thing that's still been bothering me is the thought of leaving the city without any protection."

"It didn't have any until three years ago, and it survived just fine."

"Yeah, but that's not the point. I don't want to just abandon those people."

"What do you have in mind?"

"Well – and I know he's not ready yet, but just hear me out – I thought that maybe once Jason was able to patrol we could kind of mix things up. You know, some nights Batman and Nightwing could chill in Gotham, other nights I could go to Bludhaven and Batman and Robin would be here, or Batman could take a night off and Robin could run with Nightwing. Maybe Nightwing and Robin could even do a few evenings in Bludhaven, once he's got a little experience under his belt. That way, Nightwing maintains a presence in Bludhaven, but Gotham still gets the combined forces more often than not. I've still got the apartments, so there's no reason why I couldn't overnight there if I had to. We could even put in an emergency line back to the cave, in case there was ever a serious problem."

"Hmm…" he nodded slowly. "That's good, Dick. I like that. I think it will really keep people on their toes, never knowing who might show up where or when. It adds an even greater element of surprise."

"Good. I'm really glad you like it."

"On the topic of Bludhaven…" he raised an eyebrow.

"Oh. Yeah, that was hell," he said flatly before outlining the events of his day. He wasn't overstating things when he used the term brutal; his final decision had not been accepted graciously. After chewing him up one side and down the other for twenty minutes, Lagrange had insisted on calling Delaney downstairs. The Captain had done his own weather best to change Dick's mind, his attitude one of fatherly advice until he realized that he had lost. At that point he'd unleashed a string of epithets that would have sent Alfred running for the soap had they come from Dick or Jason's mouth (and, quite possibly, from Bruce's), among them a denunciation of his former officer as an "ungrateful, spoiled rotten, bastard punk of a rich kid." After offering up that opinion and slinging more than a few choice words at Bruce's reputation, he had stormed from the room, leaving him alone with Lagrange again. Apparently deciding that all of the really good insults had been voiced, she merely informed him that he was an idiot before following her supervisor.

His farewells to his fellow patrol officers, at least, had been much better. It had only taken him a few minutes to grab his personal effects from his desk – coffee cup, the Waterford pen Alfred had given him on his sixteenth birthday, the picture of himself and Bruce grinning at the camera, arms over each other's shoulders, during the last ski trip they'd taken together – but in that space of time almost a dozen people had stopped to shake his hand and wish him luck. Lagrange, he learned from them, had done more than just tell everyone about the promotion he'd been offered, going so far as to claim that he'd already accepted it and started working in his new department. Many of people he had worked the closest with had looked disturbed by her blatant untruths; once they heard that he was in fact leaving Bludhaven, several of them had stated that if he was going over to Gotham PD, they might try to do so as well. Dick had encouraged all of them, interested in anything that would help him keep up his friendships with the folks whose antics had helped distract him from the pain of his estrangement from his family over the last three years. Knowing them to be good cops who would be assets to his hometown had only made his promises to stand as references for them all the easier.

The desk girls…he felt guilty about the girls. Cecelia's face had crumbled before she broke out into loud, obnoxious bawling that earned him scathing looks from a couple of passersby. Danielle, at least, had held together, patting her wailing coworker on the shoulder while she asked about his reasons for leaving. Once he explained about his desire to go home and the position he'd been offered, she agreed that he would be a fool not to go. The sadness hadn't left her eyes, though, and that look had cut him deeper than Cecelia's heartbroken petitions for him to reconsider ever could. As soon as he'd been outside of the station he'd texted her to see if she wanted to grab a coffee next weekend; after all, it wasn't like Cecelia would know, so long as Danielle didn't tell her.

"I'm sorry to hear that." They both looked towards the bed as Dick's phone buzzed in the khakis he'd stripped out of in favor of his new uniform. "Sounds like there wasn't much pleasure in it for you."

Reading the message he'd just received, Dick grinned. "Well, I dunno now, Bruce. It looks like I at least got a date out of it." He wouldn't mind driving to Bludhaven if it meant that he could finally have the date with Danielle that he'd been hoping for all these months.

Bruce smiled at the obvious happiness on the younger man's face. "Please tell me it's not the blonde one. I don't think I could handle having anyone that…emotionally charged…for a daughter in law."

"Whoa, hey, it's just coffee. Don't get ahead of yourself. And it's not Cecelia, I know better than that. Can you imagine the look I'd get from Alfred the first time she got excited and her voice broke the crystal?" They both laughed at that, and Dick cast a final look at his reflection. "Okay, I'm done being vain in these clothes," he announced, eyes locked to his own rear in self-admiration. "I wonder if I can find an excuse to wear this on my date with Dee…"

"I wouldn't go there. Not on a _first _date, at least. Now, would you like to go down to the cave and spend twenty minutes staring at yourself in your Nightwing costume?" Bruce ribbed.

"Yes, yes I would," Dick played along, loosening his collar and cuffs as they walked into the hallway. Nearing the stairs, they were met by a rather disgruntled-looking Jason. "Hey, bro, what's with the look? Math giving you fits again?"

"I want to come with you."

"You're _grounded,_ Jason," Bruce growled.

"I know, but…please? I'll be really good, I swear. I'll just hang back, I won't even talk."

"No. Even if you weren't still being punished for what you did to that squirrel, you aren't ready to go out. Not even with two people to watch your back."

"C'mon, Bruce! Dick, you talk to him!"

He sighed. "Sorry, Jay. I have to agree with Bruce on this one."

The boy's eyes instantly narrowed into a glare. "Well of course, you _would_ side with him. You're the fucking golden child, after all. Bruce's favorite, Alfred's favorite, _everybody's_ favorite. Who needs me when they've got _you_?"

Bruce had the child in the air by the back of his shirt before the last word had faded away. "Don't you _ever_ use language like that towards an adult," he instructed, his voice the one that struck fear into the bowels of Gotham's nastiest hoods. "And if I hear you speak to Dick in that manner again, you will be grounded for the rest of your natural life." He dropped him into a shaking heap on the floor. "Go to bed, and go to sleep. I'm adding a week onto your punishment."

"What?! No! I'm sorry, okay?"

"Now, Jason, or I'll keep going!"

With a scream of rage, he stomped back down the hall towards his room, trailing a black cloud of discontent. Dick watched him go, arms crossed protectively around himself, his good mood completely flattened.

"…He doesn't mean what he said, Dick," Bruce tried to reassure him. "He's just acting out."

"Sure." It still hurt, though. He and Jason had managed to have a few pretty good bonding moments over the last two weeks, working on things like stealth that could be practiced without disregarding his punishment and just generally getting used to one another. To hear the boy talk like he just had, though, made Dick wonder if he'd really gotten to know him at all, despite all the effort he'd put into the task.

The billionaire sighed, seeing that nothing he could say right then would help. "Let's go. Maybe taking down a couple of lowlifes will make you feel better."

"…Sure."

Several hours later, he had to admit that he felt a little less awful. The slight breeze lifted his hair, cooling his forehead as he fingered the still-sensitive spot on his side. It was closed up and healed enough that Alfred had merely raised his eyebrows when he heard that they were going out, but the flesh remained tender and bruised. Pushing on it helped distract him from his increasingly strong concerns about the child he'd already come to love like a brother.

The issue of killing aside – Jason still maintained that he had done nothing wrong, at one point even stating that the squirrel had deserved to die – there was the problem of his moods. If he was alone with Bruce or with Dick, he was generally a fairly happy kid. Put him in a room with both of them at once, however, and before five minutes had passed he transformed into a seething ball of discord. Dick had tried to talk with him about it, explaining that his being back in Gotham didn't change Jason's place in the house in the least, but the response he'd gotten had been disbelieving at best. Now, tonight, with that "golden child" comment…he grimaced and shook his head, lost as to what more he could do to show the boy that he belonged, too. Maybe it would get better once Jason's grounding was complete and they could start training again, he thought.

"Are you alright?" A growl from behind him.

"I'm fine."

"You looked as if your injury was painful."

He shook his head again, this time with a muffled laugh as he considered the dichotomy standing beside him. Bruce was just as bad as Jason; put a cowl on him and anger was the only emotion you could get the man to evince without almost killing yourself in the attempt. If he had touched his side and made a face back at the manor, he probably would have been forced into a chair or bed with an injunction not to move. Out here, on the other hand, it was almost a miracle that it had even warranted Batman's notice. "I was thinking about Robin, that's all."

"…And?"

"I don't know. I think he resents me. He seems so bitter."

"He's young."

"The old Robin was never like that, though…was he? So…so _ugly_, at times? So hateful, so filled with rage?"

Batman looked at him, eyes unreadable in the shadows. "No, Nightwing. He most definitely was not any of those things."

He held that black gaze for a second, then nodded and turned his attention back to the street. "Down," he whispered sharply, dropping into a crouch to keep from being silhouetted against the night sky.

"Where?" Batman queried, kneeling beside him in an instant.

"Three o'clock. Coming up slow." The box truck pulled up to an old storefront and stopped, flashing its lights once. The driver jumped out and ran around to the back as three others appeared from the building. "Gun runners. The driver is the one who slipped past us last time, after he tagged me."

"They're heavily armed again," Batman informed him, passing over the binoculars.

"Yeah, well, they're fixing to be even better equipped, if they get that truck unloaded. Them and half the hoods in Gotham. There's been some chatter about another attempt to bring in armor-piercers; I'd bet money this is that load."

"Ready?"

"Let's go. I call the driver, I owe him."

Even wielding guns, three of the four were down in seconds. The driver was a slippery bastard, though, and darted down an alley the instant Batman and Nightwing hit the pavement. Leaving Batman to deal with securing the shipment and alerting the police, Nightwing gave chase, determined not to give the man a third chance to import the deadly ammunition he seemed to specialize in.

He cornered him at a dead end. "You're done," he informed the smuggler, watching him closely. If their last encounter was any indication, the man's gun was sure to be loaded with some of the same ammunition he was trying to sell.

"Didn't I already shoot you?" he sneered.

"You aren't a very good shot. All you did was piss me off. Give it up."

"Or what, you'll sic the kid on me?"

Nightwing's eyes widened as a familiar flash of color ghosted through his peripheral vision, running to his side. "Robin," he whispered. _Oh, Jason, what are you __doing__?_ Seizing his opportunity while Nightwing was distracted by the new arrival, the gunrunner drew his weapon and fired.

He caught the telltale flex of muscle as the driver reached for his pistol and reached out on instinct to grab the boy. He pulled the child to himself, spinning as he did so that he was between Robin and the oncoming bullet. The spin, he would reflect later, probably saved him, as it put his arm in the path of the projectile rather than his back.

He'd known it was going to hurt like hell no matter where it hit him, but there was no way to prepare for the feeling of his humerus cracking as the shot plunged into his arm directly above the graze he'd been dealt in his last encounter with this dealer. He tried to brace himself against the momentum of the hit, not wanting to fall over as he waited for additional rounds to tear through his armor. No doubt they would be aimed at more lethal areas this time around. He just hoped that his presence might buy enough time for Batman to arrive, might be enough to save Jason's life.

Finally he could no longer hold himself up and had to let himself fall to his knees, gasping around the agony coursing up and down his arm, into his shoulder, and down his side to aggravate the last injury he'd received. Robin tried to move around him, but Nightwing forced him to the ground too, still operating under the belief that the gun runner would be shooting again in moments. Had he been able to concentrate on anything other than breathing and keeping the child in front of him out of the line of fire, he would have been able to hear the thick, meaty echoes of the blows Batman was pouring down on their quarry.

"Nightwing," Robin whispered, terrified by the awful grimace of pain on his face. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

"Stay down," was all Nightwing hissed back.

Less than ten seconds after the trigger had been pulled, the boy was yanked away from him. He looked up, a snarl on his face as he supposed the shooter had come to finish the job execution style, and found himself confronted instead with a cowl. "Robin," he managed through clenched jaws.

"Isn't hurt," Batman stated, reaching for his arm.

"Don't!" Nightwing exclaimed sharply. "It's broken. Bullet hit the bone."

"Damn it." He shook his head. "I told you not to get shot again."

"Wasn't…exactly…how I pictured the encounter going, either. How'd you know…to come?"

"I saw Robin watching us from behind a dumpster, back at the truck. You never had a chance of seeing him, he was behind you the whole time. I don't know how he followed us here, maybe he saw our route for tonight up on the computers and got lucky. I lost track of him when you took off after the driver and assumed he'd chased you."

"Good thing."

"He shouldn't even _be _here. It is _not_ a good thing."

"No, I meant…you following. Probably be dead."

After a moment's pause, gloved hands reached up and cupped his face. "Don't move. Robin!" he barked, standing up. "Get over here."

The brightly clad boy looked back at them from where he stood over the battered and hogtied gun runner. Taking in the ramrod straight posture Batman was pulling and the puddle of blood steadily growing beside the half-collapsed Nightwing, he hesitated. He knew that it wouldn't help his cause to delay obeying what had clearly been a direct order, however, so he trudged over. "He's not dead," he said, speaking before the figure towering above him could. "Why don't you kill him?"

"What?" Batman's voice was dangerously quiet.

"He _shot_ Di-Nightwing," he argued. "He would have killed us both. I saw the file you have on him," he said to the bleeding man. "He's been in prison three times already. He's never going to change. We should just…you know." He ended his monologue lamely under the stares of the two adults.

"That isn't how we do things, Robin." The words were said in the Batman growl, but Nightwing thought he could detect a measure of deep disappointment behind them.

"He would have murdered us! How can you let him live?" The boy was talking to Nightwing directly now, pleading. "Do you _want_ him to get a third chance to try and kill you?"

"No," he panted, staring into the child before him's eyes and trying not to vomit. "But that isn't how…we do things."

Robin shook his head. "You're crazy," he whispered.

"Mostly just bleeding, actually."

Batman swore at the reminder, digging in his belt. "Send the car," he spoke it his cowl, knowing Alfred would be listening for just such an order. "Here." Producing a tourniquet, he wrapped it above the wound and tightened it. "Lie down."

"…It's kinda gross here."

"Nightwing-"

"I can wait," he insisted.

"Fine," he silenced him. "Robin!" he bellowed, seeing him heading back towards the downed gun runner. "Here. _Now._"

Nightwing had jumped at the unexpected noise right next to his ear, and he couldn't keep a small scream from escaping as the ends of his broken arm jammed together.

"Sorry. I'm sorry." The cowl bent down towards him, and as Nightwing stared into it he would have sworn he saw a tear escape its wearer's eye.

"It's fine," he managed as Robin rejoined them and stood, shifting from one foot to the other. His eyes moved back and forth between the bound man at the end of the alley and the injured hero in front of him, his anger becoming more and more palpable the longer they waited.

When the car swung in and stopped, Batman ordered the child into it before he pulled the wounded man to his feet. "Steady."

"…Yeah." He slumped into his seat, holding the ends of the tourniquet so that they would slow the blood flow to his arm without stopping it. Everything fuzzed as they drove, but he didn't care. _Got to think of an excuse for this,_ he fretted. _I start work in three days, I have to have something to tell them…_

"…Again?" was the next word he recognized. Opening his eyes – he hadn't even realized that they'd closed themselves at some point during the drive – he found Alfred bending over him. The butler gently took the tourniquet ends from his icy fingers, murmuring something soft that he didn't quite catch. Too tired to ask for a repeat, he let his eyes close again and just listened.

"Well, he's done it right this time."

"Is it broken? He said it was." Bruce had stripped off the cowl and chucked it somewhere, not leaving Dick's side as he yelled at Jason to get changed and get to bed inside of ten minutes if he ever wanted to see the inside of the cave again.

"Even without an x-ray, I would say that it is most definitely broken, Master Wayne. It will heal so long as we can stave off infection, but it will need to be immobilized for at least eight weeks."

"How's he going to explain this to his work?"

"Motorcycle accident," Dick murmured.

"What?" Oddly, he wasn't sure which of them asked that.

"Crashed a bike. Asshole drunk ran me off the road. Way back from Bludhaven. You know…lots of fences? Maybe I hit one. People do that. Piece of it went in my arm. I can still work, just…" he made a face, "…all desk duty."

Bruce laughed miserably. "You're too good at this, Dick. That's how I know you've had to do it too often."

"…It's okay?"

"I'll arrange the necessary props first thing in the morning," Alfred told him as he slipped a needle into his arm. "Press release, all of that. It's an admirably simple and believable story, Master Dick."

"I had him, Bruce. I…I had that guy, until Robin came out of nowhere."

"I know. I know you did. It's okay, we got him, and the shipment. There won't be any armor piercing bullets on the streets of Gotham, at least not tonight."

"Dick?" the boy popped up beside the table, throwing a cautious glance towards Bruce before he said anything else. "I'm sorry. I really am. I didn't mean for you to get hurt, honest."

He gave him a faint smile. "It's okay, Jay. I'm not mad at you."

"I am, however," Bruce broke in. "You're lucky he moves as fast as he does, or-"

"Or I'd be dead," Jason interrupted him. "I know. Thanks," he mumbled, not quite able to meet Dick's eyes as he said it.

"…Any time, bro."

Bruce exhaled loudly. "Go to bed, Jason. We'll talk in the morning."

"Is he gonna be okay?"

"_Jason-"_

"He'll recover, Master Jason," Alfred cut the billionaire off with a look. The last thing the child needed right at that moment was a tongue lashing. That could wait until everyone had gotten a solid night's sleep. "Now please go."

He backed away slowly after that, eyes not leaving the table until he reached the stairs and disappeared from sight.

"He's not going anywhere until he gets this killing thing straight in his head," Bruce declared once he was gone. "He's lucky his bonehead move didn't get you both killed."

"…Worried about him."

"Let me do that. You rest." Leaning down, he pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, staying there long enough to hear his son's breathing even out into morphine-induced unconsciousness.

"…Master Wayne?" the butler inquired when he straightened.

"To keep a long story short, Alfred, no one who saw what happened out there tonight could ever question why my son has two bravery citations on the way. Jason owes him his life."

"…I feared that might have been the reason, sir. And Master Jason…?"

"Still seems to think killing is okay, so long as you feel the person in question deserves it."

"…I see."

"He's not allowed down here until I'm satisfied he's over this penchant for causing death. Not even with supervision, yours or Dick's. He also owes him a much more contrite apology and thanks than what he gave a few minutes ago."

"Of course, sir."

"I can't believe he snuck out after us."

"I assure you that I will monitor him more diligently from here on. I feel that this is partly my own doing, for not having kept track of him more closely this evening."

"It isn't your fault, Alfred. It isn't really mine or Dick's, either. It's just…Jason."

In the shadows midway up the stairs, crouched in the spot that Dick had jokingly advised him was a good place to hear things you weren't supposed to, Jason listened, and planned. Bruce wanted an apology and gratitude to Dick? He could manage that without difficulty, seeing as how he really did feel bad for what had happened. Dick was on his side, after all, and had literally taken a bullet for him tonight. Plus, he did genuinely like the guy. The other thing, though, coming to terms with the idea that killing was always wrong…that would be a harder hurdle to jump. He could learn how to hide that particular belief around the others, but he knew in his heart that it would never be a credo that he could accept. When it came to learning Batman's, and now Nightwing's, secrets, though, Jason would do whatever was required, even if it meant operating as if scumbags like the ones who had killed his parents and had tried tonight to kill himself and Dick didn't deserve death.

Once he was out on his own, though, he swore to himself as he crept the rest of the way up the stairs, all bets were off. Then the criminals of the world would _really_ have something to fear.

**Author's Note: Well, wonderful readers, this is the end of it. The epilogue went a fair bit longer than I had anticipated - evidently I wasn't quite as ready to finish with this story as I had thought - but with any luck you all enjoyed it. Many thanks to all of you who have come this far with me, and especially those of you who have been so kind with your reviews and private messages. I hope to hear from you all again when I post further stories that I have planned for this fandom. I can promise that you won't have to wait too long! **


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